Joey enters into a marshmallow-toasting contest to see who can make theirs the brownest without letting it catch fire. Then there’s freshly sliced watermelon that dribbles down arms and necks and sets off a seed-spitting war. For the adults there’s another watermelon filled with cantaloupe and honeydew balls that have been soaking in vodka. Hayden doesn’t mention the secret ingredient that makes it taste so refreshing. “Now that’s a fruit salad,” he says to Rosamond as they finish drinking the leftover juice in the bottom of their bowls and go back for more.
Rosamond can’t understand why, but she begins to feel flushed and light-headed. “I have the strangest urge to do jumping jacks,” she whispers to Hayden and then releases a girlish giggle at the very thought of such a spectacle.
“And who in the heck is Jumping Jack?” rails Hayden, who has by now had several beers and fears that Rosamond has taken a shine to one of the fellows at the party.
“Jumping jacks, silly,” Rosamond says and demonstrates by moving her arms up and down. “At the convent I used to lead calisthenics every Tuesday and Thursday.”
“Well why didn’t you say so. C’mon, everyone!” Hayden announces to the thirty or so partygoers lounging around talking and laughing with drinks in hand. “Rosie’s going to lead us in some exercise, and lord knows a few of you could use it.” Hayden nods toward some of the more pronounced potbellies in the crowd.
“Hayden, I didn’t mean for real,” protests Rosamond.
But he’s already haphazardly assembled the group, and started the jumping jacks by shouting “hut two! hut two!” and there’s nothing for her to do but join in. Fortunately the participants appear to think that this is an excellent amusement and they all hop up and down chuckling and giving each other high fives until they tumble onto the grass laughing. Even the normally sedentary Ed Palowski sits up in his lounge chair and claps two empty beer cans above his head.
Once it grows dark enough for the children to light sparklers and draw their names in the evening air, Hayden tells Joey it’s time to head home so they can proceed with their scheme. The only task left is to make up some excuse to give Rosamond.
As they walk up the driveway Hayden says to Rosamond, “Okay then, Joey and I are off to uh—to look at some hunting rifles. We’ll be back in about an hour.”
“Oh, I haven’t been to a sporting goods store since I was a girl.” Rosamond’s giddiness is accompanied by a sudden taste for adventure. She makes a note to get the recipe from Mrs. Palowski for that delicious watermelon basket. It certainly was restorative.
Standing slightly behind Rosamond, Joey points down toward the spot on his arm where one normally wears a watch. It’s almost ten o’clock.
Hayden makes a show of looking down at his watch. “Actually, they’re probably closed. We’re going to the twenty-four-hour outdoor garden center to look at some fertilizer for the backyard—very dirty stuff.”
“I wouldn’t mind going for a drive.” Rosamond enjoys being in Hayden’s company, even when he’s just going to fill the car with gas. It seems as if something always happens in his presence. Occasionally they ran into an old business crony of his and the two exchanged quips, or else they might see a man wearing a shirt covered in a blinding print and Hayden would lean over and whisper, “South Africa called. They want their flag back.”
It’s Joey who ultimately decides that honesty is the best policy. “We’re going to set off some rockets on Cyrus’s grave,” he confesses. “We could get arrested. But you’re welcome to come if you want.”
“Why not?” Rosamond is definitely up for the adventure, even if she doesn’t fully appreciate the stakes. “I used to love fireworks when I was a girl. We would smuggle them into Maine from Canada on my father’s boat—great big sizzling flares, screaming rockets, and red pinwheels.”
“Okay, then,” Hayden relents. He has to admit that her daring is impressive. “But wear the old penguin suit, just in case. It may come in handy.”
chapter nineteen
The gates to the small Jewish cemetery are secured by a rusty but effective padlock. It’s an old graveyard and the trees and shrubbery have long ago outgrown the original landscaping plan. This makes for dark dense patches that loom in the corners like giant rock formations. A sudden gust of wind rustles through the branches above them as if the breeze has a secret it’s trying to tell. And for a moment the air swirls about them like water.
Joey runs ahead carrying a flashlight that illuminates thick canopies of cobwebs slung between the surrounding hedge like silver wires strung with tiny diamonds. Eventually he locates a place near the back where a couple of bicycles are leaning against the fence and there’s a gap in the shrubbery. By climbing from pedal to seat it’s easy to scale the fence.
“Probably some kids daring each other to spend the night in the graveyard,” concludes Hayden. “Let’s give them their money’s worth.” His voice is filled with bravado and mischief.
Joey is the first to hop over the fence, then Hayden chivalrously holds the bicycle steady for Rosamond as she climbs up, lifting her thick cumbersome skirts with one hand and using the other to lean on his shoulder for support. Just as she’s at the top of the fence, Hayden shines his light on her head, the stark white wimple making her face ghostlike against the surrounding black. Some shouts can be heard a few yards away along with the trampling of dry brush and several “ouches” as heads collide and toes are stubbed against tombstones in the rush to hide. When Rosamond is safely over the fence, Hayden follows. He’s glad it’s dark so she and Joey can’t see the effort that it takes him. The physical sureness and capability he’d always taken pride in had recently changed to a sense of limitation and uncertainty.
Once they locate the correct plot, Hayden and Joey line up ten empty Coke bottles and pat them down into the fresh earth of Cyrus’s grave. After placing a rocket inside each one they stand solemnly in front of the plastic marker for a few moments, as if it’s a shrine. But the silence is soon interrupted by the rustling and whispering of frightened boys trying to find their way back to the fence in the darkness.
It’s a moonless night except for a pale pewter halo behind thick dark clouds, and even Hayden has to admit that this particular cemetery ranks high when it comes to spookiness. Every willow branch dangling along the path makes you feel as if a spirit is tapping you on the shoulder, or running a long bony finger down your cheek. And with their rounded tops, the tombstones and tall, thin monuments resemble shadowy and misshapen soldiers about to descend upon anyone who dares to disturb the dead.
“Shouldn’t we say a few words?” Hayden asks as they stand atop Cyrus’s final resting place.
“How about the Mass for the Dead?” suggests Rosamond.
“Too Catholic.”
“Then how about something from the Old Testament?” says Rosamond. “Psalm Twenty-seven—The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? When the wicked—”
“I think Cyrus got enough religiosity from Hannah.”
“We learned the dreidel song in school,” offers Joey.
“Wrong holiday,” replies Hayden. But the word holiday sparks the solution. “I’ve got it! ‘This Land Is Your Land’! Woody Guthrie was one of Cyrus’s favorite customers and he was always playing Guthrie’s albums in the back of the store.” Hayden professes to be a Guthrie fan as well, though for an entirely different reason. The musician who so famously chronicled America was of Scottish descent.
Hayden leans over to set off the first rocket but his short match runs out before the fuse catches. “Bloody hell. I forgot to bring a lighter.”
Circumstances being what they are Rosamond chooses to ignore his bad language. She pulls a votive candle out from the folds of her habit like a magician producing a dove. “Here. Use this.” Her ingenuity produces nods of approval from her co-conspirators.
Once the fuses are lit Hayden and Joey and Rosamond stand a few feet back and b
egin softly singing “This land is your land, this land is my land, from California . . .”
As the rockets hiss and shoot up into the inky black sky they hear an enormous ruckus off to the side as the group of interlopers has apparently decided to run for their lives. Ghosts are one thing. But it would seem that Armageddon put to folk music is quite another. The sound of scrambling through hedges is followed by a moment of illumination from the explosives, during which a half dozen lithe young bodies hurl themselves up and over the fence as if their very existence depended upon it. The rusty metal fence squeaks and vibrates until they’ve all made it safely to the other side. The last rocket makes a low arc and explodes just a few yards above Cyrus’s grave, showering it in sparkling blue lights.
“Now that’s a Fourth of July those kids will remember,” laughs Hayden. “And one that will make ’em take out lots of insurance when they’re older.”
“Believe me, I’ll always remember it!” Rosamond is so caught up in the excitement she’s forgotten that there’s no reason to be storing up memories for old age.
Joey will never forget the night either. Though not so much due to all the action in the cemetery as for the close call when they get home.
Hayden has miscalculated Diana’s return and instead of preceding her by a comfortable margin he finds her pacing the living room, anxiously awaiting their arrival and on the brink of calling the police.
“Dad, where on earth have you been? I called Alisdair and Paddy and Hugh and nobody has seen you, sober or otherwise.” She pauses to take a breath and only then absorbs their appearance—Joey’s torn T-shirt, black soot covering Hayden’s hands, brambles stuck to Rosamond’s habit, which she hadn’t worn since the day she arrived. “What is going on?” Her voice rises a full octave and her eyebrows meet overhead to form a dark, angry V.
Unprepared for this surprise encounter, Hayden and Joey are briefly stumped as they both work furiously to concoct a story that Diana is likely to believe. However, all Hayden can think of is to say that they were out in the golf course searching for golf balls, and he instinctively knows that she’ll never buy it, at least not at this time of night. His eyes dart from Diana to Joey like a runner about to steal second base.
“We were praying.” Rosamond comes to the rescue.
“Yes,” Hayden quickly and enthusiastically agrees. It passes through his mind that she could have had a tremendous career in sales. He hadn’t realized how fast she is on her feet. “Rosie took us on a vigil.”
“You’re trying to make me believe that you were off praying!” Diana scowls at Hayden and straightens up to her full height of five-foot-nine so that she’s almost staring him in the eye. She further expands her domination over the available space by placing her hands firmly on her hips.
But it’s Joey who ultimately acquits them. “Praying.” Clasping his hands together he gazes up toward the overhead light fixture as if it’s the Blessed Virgin Mary herself. And with a beatific smile on his youthful face he begins to chant, “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?” His wide-set eyes and fresh pink skin give him an expression of angelic innocence.
Diana’s caught off guard and her face goes momentarily blank. For the first time ever in dealing with her father she’s been completely trumped rather than fobbed off or cleverly evaded. Not only that, she’s aghast at having sounded so offensive in front of Rosamond, especially when her friend is wearing her ecclesiastical uniform, on duty for God.
“I’m so sorry,” Diana apologizes. “It’s just that I didn’t know where you’d gone and of course got myself all worried and so I . . . I . . .”
Rosamond lightly touches Diana’s shoulder as if to confirm that she’s absolved of all sin and says good night, though her own conscience gives her a prick on the way out of the room. Well, they had been praying. She puts it down as a sin of omission and assigns herself twenty Hail Marys and a handful of Our Fathers before going to bed. Stopping for a moment in the kitchen she fills a glass of water to calm the coughing spells that often wake her during the night. Through the window over the sink it’s possible to see the iridescent red and green flashes of neighborhood fireworks cascading back to earth like falling stars.
“Perhaps they have it right,” muses Rosamond. “It’s best to go out in a blaze of glory.” And though she could not see it, her eyes reflected the flickering lights, and something awoke deep inside of her.
chapter twenty
Although she’s only been an honorary member of the MacBride clan for two weeks, Rosamond’s insistence that they focus on living, not dying, has taken effect, and the household settles into a new rhythm. To the delight of Diana and Joey, a peculiarly submissive Hayden is no longer constantly indulging his morbid obsessions, and he and Joey aren’t sneaking off to funerals every morning.
Instead, the three friends pass the warm summer days attending baseball games and fishing for striped bass and mackerel in Jamaica Bay and the Atlantic. Or else roaming the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, admiring the voluptuous magnolias and sweet-smelling crabapple blossoms. It’s inevitable that at some point while gazing around at all the beautiful blooms Rosamond will recall the power of the creation story, sigh and say, “Life began in a garden.”
“Actually, life began in the sea,” Hayden contradicts her.
“Flowers need water,” says Joey, diplomatically suggesting that they might both be right. And this, combined with the glorious color and fragrance of the Cranford Rose Garden, is enough to make them leave the age-old debate for another time, giving Joey the opportunity to go and hunt for Godzilla, the monstrous ancient turtle.
When it rains they head for museums in any of the five boroughs, making the selection by blindfolding Joey and having him randomly drop his pencil point onto the list. The only rule is that they must visit everyplace once before starting to repeat.
At the Metropolitan Museum of Art in Manhattan, Rosamond and Hayden relax by the fountain with the bronze Pan figure in the center located at the end of the statue gallery. They admire the large Tiffany stained-glass panel and Hayden splashes Rosamond with a handful of water whenever she turns away. Of course, the one time Rosamond splashes Hayden back the guard comes running over and Rosamond, who has never been publicly reprimanded for anything in her entire life, practically faints with embarrassment.
“I told her to stop it,” Hayden soberly informs the guard. “It’s not as if we’re in a playground.”
Joey darts in and out of the reconstructed ancient Egyptian tomb with other mummy-obsessed young boys. Hayden notices how his grandson’s arms and legs are beginning to seem too long and gangly for his still soft boyish body, and wonders if he’ll grow to be tall and wiry like the men on Mary’s side of the family. Her brothers had all distinguished themselves as long-distance runners and college track stars. Or perhaps he’d develop the strong back, shoulders, and hands of the MacBride farmers and become a wrestler or a football player.
When Joey finishes with the Temple of Dendur they walk past a display of Chinese pottery and musical instruments on the way to the European wing. Wandering among the nineteenth- and twentieth-century paintings Rosamond is soothed by the luminous impressionist landscapes and cathedrals of Renoir and Monet. She’s fascinated by the way small brushstrokes are used to simulate reflected light and how the broken colors manage to achieve such brilliance. And when they arrive in the rooms holding paintings from the Renaissance she’s captivated by the sumptuous Madonna and Child with Two Angels by Botticelli, and Filippo Lippi’s dramatic The Annunciation.
Without thinking Rosamond reaches out her hand and touches Hayden’s arm, but she’s so startled by the sensual power of their contact that it causes her to draw away just as quickly. Hayden’s equally stunned by the electricity of their connection, but because she jerks her hand away he assumes Rosamond must have touched him by accident, or without thinking. There’s no way of asking, but he secretly hop
es it was the latter.
Hayden is also captivated by the paintings, though he admires the works for their sensuousness, vigorous style, and delicate coloration. He stands for a long while in front of enchanting mythological scenes such as Ameto’s Discovery of the Nymphs and Titian’s Venus and the Lute Player that allude to the triumph of love and reason over brutish instinct.
Following close behind Hayden and Rosamond, Joey is mesmerized with the paintings for an entirely different reason. He’s counting and mentally cataloging all of the naked women, and constantly reshuffling his Top Ten List of Breasts, which he’d started the week before when they attended the Salvador Dalí show at the Brooklyn Museum of Art.
On the way to see the weapons and armaments, Joey’s favorite exhibit, they pass through the gallery of large thirteenth-century paintings and triptychs depicting gory battle scenes, the birth of Jesus, and Christ dying on the cross. Joey reads the description below one of the paintings and asks Rosamond, “Did Jesus Christ want kids to call him Mr. Christ, or just Jesus?”
“I believe everyone addressed him as Jesus,” says Rosamond, trying not to smile. “Christ wasn’t his last name. It means ‘messiah.’ So it didn’t mean that Jesus was born to Joseph and Mary Christ, but Jesus the Messiah.”
“Oh, like Robert the Bruce,” says Joey.
“Who?” Rosamond appears confused.
Hayden nods to indicate that Joey should explain.
“Robert the first, the king of Scotland who won Scottish independence from England in the battle of Bannockburn in 1314.”
Hayden interjects, “He may have been a messiah to the Scots but I doubt the English viewed him that way.” He chuckles. “Anyway, Bruce is from the French de brus, and it was the name of the clan, the way I’m descended from the MacBride Clan.”
“So it should really be Jesus the Christ,” says Joey. “Like Winnie the Pooh.”
Rosamond and Hayden both laugh at the comparison, especially in front of such dramatic works of self-sacrifice. But Joey doesn’t understand what’s so funny and feels sheepish whenever Rosamond shares in a joke at his expense.
Last Call Page 11
