“I think of movie stars in an evolutionary way,” Uncle Bishop began, in his best lecture voice. “I’ve often wondered,” he continued, “how many pea-brained Stallones had to come and go over the millennium before one little Woody Allen, pinkish and unshelled, managed to crawl beneath some foliage and there to slowly evolve all the way to Annie Hall.”
“You have an unorthodox way of approaching film,” Lloyd said.
“It’s the most natural way,” Uncle Bishop replied. “For instance, when I think of Stallone, I think of a brontosaurus toppling trees. But Woody Allen was one of those furry little creatures that hid in the branches by day and foraged by night, lemurs with big eyes and small digits that were slowly becoming fingers that could eventually hold a camera steady.” Here was a kind of cinema verité that Lloyd had never encountered within the dark, popcorn-strewn Bixley Square Theater, an aleatory technique that would have caused even Bergman to run.
“Rosie, please make him stop,” Miriam whispered. Rosemary looked at her and shrugged.
“Shit happens, Miriam,” she said, “but life is sweet. Life is all sugar. Fight your own battles, kiddo.” Miriam accepted the challenge.
“The Bible says that whosoever shall lie on the ground with their own kind,” Miriam said, “shall be made to stand up and take their punishment like men.” She looked at Lloyd, who nodded his approval.
“Something like that,” Lloyd said, and reached for her hand.
“For your information, Mary Magdalene,” said Uncle Bishop, “I have not lain upon the ground with my own kind since God invented beds. Unless you count the Quebec Winter Carnival.” He directed his next question to Lloyd. “Is it still a sin if there’s snow on the ground?”
“Just where is Aunt Mary?” Mother demanded. It was bad enough that Father was always late.
“I told you this would happen, Rosie,” Uncle Bishop complained. “First it was Ayn Rand. Then Pyramid Power. Now it’s Jesus because Miriam wants to put a capital M back in money.”
“That’s a lie,” Miriam said, embarrassed now in front of her minister.
“And remember her Kahlil Gibran stage?” Uncle Bishop continued. “You couldn’t ask her to pass the steak sauce without hearing that cryptic language out of The Prophet.”
“Perhaps we should be going,” Lloyd said. Miriam looked pleadingly at Rosemary.
“No, of course not,” said Rosemary. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
“Maybe one of these days, Bishop, you’ll see things differently,” said Lloyd. He sounded professionally sympathetic. “You’ll give yourself to Jesus, and your life will be on a more natural path.” A natural path? That was food for thought. And Miriam probably hadn’t told him yet about the shoe fights. “The Heavenly Father is a forgiving Father.”
“Where is Father?” Mother asked.
“He’ll be here soon,” Rosemary assured her, and took the empty wineglass from her hand.
“He’d better bring my chocolates,” said Mother.
“I’ll get her a glass of cranberry juice,” Rosemary told the nurse. Miriam followed her into the kitchen.
“Rosie, please,” she said. “Make him stop his teasing.” She had unscrewed a pint of rum from her purse and was pouring some into her wine.
“I don’t control Uncle Bishop’s mouth,” was Rosemary’s reply.
“This man is so different from Raymond,” Miriam said as she stirred her drink.
“No shit,” said Rosemary. She poured a small glass of cranberry juice and hoped that it would satisfy Mother.
“Are you or are you not going to make Bishop stop?” Rosemary looked at her big sister, at the glowing red hair, the abnormally green outfit.
“Not,” Rosemary said.
“Then what should I do?” Miriam asked. “Sit there mute?”
“What an excellent idea,” Rosemary said.
***
The kitchen table was loaded with salads. Vegetables were in the pots they’d cooked in, on the stove. As this was an informal family dinner, everyone was advised to fix his or her own plate. A small breadline formed, except for Mother, who was waiting for Rosemary to bring her a plate of food. Robbie and Carol were talking politics.
“We should be ashamed for bombing Iraq,” Carol was saying. “And let’s face it, that war was for oil.” Robbie agreed.
“Edward Gibbon wrote that a large show of military force a long way from home is symptomatic of a sick society,” he told Carol. College students, so wonderfully sharp and political. Rosemary felt a twinge of jealousy, a longing for the old schooldays, those days when every ism and ideology seemed to matter. Back then it was Vietnam, something she hoped would never reoccur. But bombs were all the talk again, falling to earth like deadly stars exploding, this time over the very birthplace of civilization.
“That ham is overcooked,” said Miriam, poking with a fork. “I knew I should’ve offered to cook the ham. This happens every year.” She spooned mashed potatoes onto her plate. Uncle Bishop heard, as he heard every Thanksgiving.
“Miriam, please lower your voice,” he said. “You’re causing paint to peel from the ceiling. Does Lloyd know you have that God-given talent?”
As Uncle Bishop served himself marshmallowed yams, Miriam made her way to the dining room, Lloyd following closely. As she passed by, Uncle Bishop looked up at the French curls frozen into red loaves on the top of her head.
“Mount Stupid,” he whispered to Rosemary.
Seated around the table, the diners looked respectfully at one another.
“Lloyd, I’m not a believer in God, or in giving thanks to one,” Rosemary finally said. “And I know that Uncle Bishop and Robbie are not believers.”
“Neither am I,” said Carol.
“Nor me,” said Mrs. Fortney, the nurse, in a confession that surprised Rosemary. She had always perceived Mrs. Fortney as one of those widows who run to their cookie jars at the request of a TV preacher. Fig Newtons for Jesus.
“Atheists, five,” Uncle Bishop said happily. “Zealots, two.”
“Nor are Carol and Mrs. Fortney,” Rosemary continued. “And I have no idea what my mother believes any longer. But if you would like to offer a blessing for the food, you are welcome to do so.” Uncle Bishop was annoyed and wanted everyone to know by sighing dramatically. Miriam and Lloyd bowed their heads and folded their hands in prayer. Miriam was wearing her signature eye shadow and her lids were prominently green.
“Doesn’t she look like a praying mantis?” Uncle Bishop whispered to Carol. Lloyd cleared his throat.
“Bless this food we have before us, dear Heavenly Father.”
“Where is Father?” Mother asked.
“Please try not to use the word father,” Miriam whispered to Lloyd, who looked confused at what appeared to be religious censorship, the very kind the pilgrims had sought to escape.
“Bless this food we have before us, Lord,” he continued. “And thank you for the safe crossing of the Pilgrims, by which we mark this day.”
“That was one bitch of a crossing,” Uncle Bishop said. “Before they even got settled on shore, William Bradford’s wife jumped off the ship and drowned herself.”
“Your blessings abound here today, dear Heavenly Fath… ah, Person. Just as they did for our forefath…ah…forepeople.”
“The Pilgrims fought like cats and dogs,” Uncle Bishop added. “Not to mention the diseases God saw fit to give them so that fifty percent of them died the first winter.”
“Rosie, are you going to read the true story of the Pilgrims again this year?” Robbie asked. “I told Carol how it’s a ritual.” That was true. It was a family ritual each Thanksgiving to gather before the fire and listen as Rosemary read the true rendition of the Pilgrims and their hardships. That’s where Uncle Bishop had gotten his information, from years of hearing it.
“Oh, that
would be wonderful,” said Carol. She was going to be just fine. Rosemary could see already how, like William, she had settled into the rhythm of the family. “Tolstoy was right,” William often said. “All happy families are alike. You’re lucky, Rosie, that your family is so unhappy.” Carol would fit right in. Robbie had done well in picking a mate, in pairing up.
“Everybody, shut up!” Miriam shouted.
“And like the Pilgrims, dear Lord,” said Lloyd, “we are gathered here meekly in your presence.”
“Why do we always assume the woman is the salt?” Uncle Bishop asked, as he picked up Rosemary’s little Pilgrim salt and pepper shakers from the table. “And that the man is the pepper?”
“And so, in ending, Dear Father, let me say—”
“He better not have a flat tire,” Mother said to Lloyd. “I want my chocolates.”
“Well, in that case,” said Lloyd, “amen.”
Miriam’s face was rigid with anger. She peered at Uncle Bishop with stony eyes.
“Stop staring at me, Miriam,” Uncle Bishop said. “You look like Medusa when you do that. Are those curls sleeping snakes?”
“Excuse me, please,” Miriam said, and disappeared with her glass into the kitchen. She returned with a drink that looked more like watery rose than the cabernet it was. Dilution with rum was tricky alchemy. She put the glass on the table.
“How long have you been cooking, Uncle Bishop?” Carol asked. “This ham is delicious.” She would learn, even by the next Thanksgiving, not to ask such questions. This was the novice’s question, this highway toward one of Uncle Bishop’s food lectures. He tilted his head, as if thinking about what to say.
“Cooking is a strange ritual,” he said. Those who knew him ate their food, well aware that they would not need to respond. “Now, Rosemary here won’t eat meat. But you must consider what prompted man to be carnivorous in the first place.”
Miriam hiccupped. She pushed her plate of food aside. From now on, it would be just the wine and rum.
“And what was that?” Carol asked, getting herself in deeper.
“He managed to survive the last Ice Age because he had fire in his possession,” Uncle Bishop continued. “But when it retreated, ten thousand years ago, he was forced to view things differently.”
Ten thousand years ago, Rosemary thought, staring at The Chinese Horse. That had been a long, vicious lesson, that never-ending glaze. By the time the Ice Age curled backward, like an old tongue, man had been an artist already for at least ten thousand long, white, Stone Age winters.
“He had learned a lesson by the time the ice retreated,” Uncle Bishop went on. “He learned to depend less on plants and more on animals, to hunt herds of them, to follow the pack.”
“Rosemary, are you just gonna sit there and let him go on and on?” Miriam asked. “Can’t you at least say something?”
Rosemary arched her shoulders into a shrug. “I think Sacco and Vanzetti were framed,” she said. Fight your own battles, is what she didn’t say to Miriam. Dig out all the ammo you can, while there’s still time for such things. That’s something Sacco and Vanzetti learned too late.
“Well, this has been an unusual Thanksgiving dinner,” said Lloyd. He rose over his barely touched plate and looked around the table at each of them, the most challenging flock he’d seen yet.
“Do you have my flashlight?” Mother asked, tugging at the pocket of his jacket.
“Perhaps, Miriam, we can talk another time,” Lloyd said. He put aside Mother’s hand as it searched for imaginary things in his pocket. Miriam barely noticed him, so angry was she at Uncle Bishop.
“Our Miriam has always been religious,” Uncle Bishop said to Lloyd. “She’s been turning red wine into white wine for years.”
“Gay blimp,” Miriam said. She turned to Carol. “And by gay I don’t mean happy.”
“On that note then,” said Lloyd, “I’ll be on my way.” Robbie went off to get his coat in an upstairs bedroom.
“Well, Miriam of Bath,” said Uncle Bishop. “Now that you’ve rebuked the Friar and entertained the company in doing so, is your tale finally over?”
“Do you think you can make it back down to Bixley?” Rosemary asked Lloyd. She wondered if even Jesus—albeit he had a reputation for doing acrobatics on water—could make his way over so much snow. But Lloyd nodded, obviously willing to risk it rather than stay behind with a family that would frighten Leo Tolstoy.
***
After dinner, Miriam fell asleep on the sofa in the den.
“I see Miriam’s knockout drops are working,” Uncle Bishop said, and Rosemary nodded. She was watching her sister’s face. Miriam’s mouth had fallen open, in the midst of dreams, or so Rosemary imagined. But what would Miriam dream of? Would it be a dream of green clothing she’d yet to buy, or shamrocks, maybe, cool between the toes. Or money, green and crisp and spendable.
“Let’s plant something in her mouth,” Uncle Bishop suggested. “Mushrooms grow in dark, moist places.”
“Poor Miriam,” said Rosemary. “What will she do next?”
“I’ve been thinking,” said Uncle Bishop. “With her penchant for men and for green, she might turn up one day with a leprechaun.”
With the fire going well and the food settling in their stomachs, the family gathered faithfully to listen to the ordeals of the Pilgrims, three and a half centuries old. Here were stories of other human beings, filtering down through the generations like slow starlight, wavering, curving, bending. Rosemary read slowly as the fire snapped and an occasional snore erupted from Miriam’s open mouth.
“‘The gale persisted throughout the day and night, without any sign of letting up. Mary Allerton gave birth to a child at the height of the storm, but it was stillborn, probably because of the conditions aboard the restlessly pitching ship.’” The story struggled on, through the first dwellings, the first squabbles, the horrible spring plague.
“Here comes the part about the beer,” she heard Uncle Bishop whisper.
“‘The shortage of beer seems to have been a prime problem,’” Rosemary read on, “‘although there was little they could do to remedy the deficiency in the immediate future.’”
“The Budweiser truck got stuck in Boston traffic,” Uncle Bishop said, as he did every year, a part of the ritual now. “Have you ever driven in Boston?”
“‘During that dreadful spring, when so many had perished, they had still managed to sow some six acres of barley and peas, and twenty acres of Indian corn. The peas crop had failed, the barley was barely successful; but the Indian corn had done well.’”
“I love that ‘barley was barely’ part,” Uncle Bishop said happily.
“Here comes the first Thanksgiving,” Robbie whispered to Carol, who took his hand in hers and stared into the fire as she listened.
“‘Four men had been sent out by the governor on a fowling expedition and had brought back enough to last the community a whole week. The happy planters had amused themselves with ground sport and a little musket drill, and then, with the arrival of Massasoit and about ninety of his braves, who brought five deer with them, they held a joint feast.’”
The reading was over for another year. Miriam snored loudly. The Pilgrims themselves had gone back to sleep. While Miriam slept, Uncle Bishop watched a tape he’d brought with him of The People’s Court, a show he’d missed earlier in the week.
“It should be good,” he told Rosemary and Robbie. “It’s the one where the dog bites Doug Llewelyn. It isn’t a reenactment, you know. Those are actual idiots.” He had, on a plate in his hands, a large wedge of pumpkin pie topped with whipped cream. Mrs. Fortney was before the fire, working out the last of her crossword puzzle, while Mother sat in her rocking chair and drew lighthouses on her magic slate. Winston had curled into a ball beneath Rosemary’s telescope, safe from the world and the snow coming down outside.
>
While Carol went upstairs to shower, Robbie and Rosemary bundled up in coats and mittens and went out into the night. The snow was falling in thick flakes, white moths everywhere, tiny angels, fluttering.
“Carol is really having her period,” Robbie said, “and wants to lie down. Menstrual cramps.” Rosemary smiled. There were more cycles now in the old house, from menarche to menopause. And there was ovulation, too, with its little white eggs; those small children, unborn and unbroken; tiny, flawless pearls escaping from the ruptured graafian follicles. Escapes. Ruptures. Hair-raising journeys. There were worlds within worlds. There were galaxies and nebulas and white gassy stars within them all, little universes waiting to explode.
“I wish the stars were out,” Robbie said, his head craned back, his face skyward to the pelting snow.
“The stars are always there, silly,” Rosemary answered, and then caught a snowflake on her tongue. “You just can’t see them tonight.” She looked up into the blackness of the Bixley night sky, looked toward the stars.
Telescopio, William, she thought. Pointillism. Seeing at a distance. She decided that on the first snowless night she would christen the telescope, chilling her fingers, sending galaxies of warm breath into small, cold orbits. The telescope had been waiting to teach her, as Mrs. Waddell’s library books were waiting. Having a wonderful time, William, Rosemary thought. Wish you were here.
“Remember when we were children,” Robbie asked, “how we used to throw ourselves backward on the snow, then spread our arms and legs to make angels?”
“I’d forgotten that,” said Rosemary. “Let’s make some.”
They spent a chilly half hour, their laughter ringing about the forms and shapes that lay waiting for spring. When they were done, the front yard was filled with a dozen life-size angels.
“Too bad Lloyd missed these,” Rosemary said, as they stood and surveyed their artwork. “This suggests a religious side to our natures he may have appreciated.”
The Bubble Reputation Page 24
