The Big Shuffle

by Laura Pedersen

  “I, uh, I just wanted to ask about Mom's birthday,” I say to Aunt Lala. “Because I always thought that she and Dad were the same age.” I hold up the insurance policy.

  A look of panic crosses Aunt Lala's face. “Yes, well … ” She takes a swallow of her tea and pauses for a moment. “I think you'd better talk to your mother about that.”

  “What do you mean? Aren't you—I mean, how old—”

  The doorbell rings and the woman sitting next to Aunt Lala rises and steers me toward the door. “That will be the minister who's coming to speak with you, Hallie.”

  NINE

  MRS. ARMSTRONG IS INDEED CORRECT AND AT THE DOOR STANDS Father Costello's temporary replacement, a woman in her late twenties with long sandy-brown hair and gentle eyes.

  “Hello, I'm Reverend Nancy Gordon,” she says. “I'm very sorry to hear about your loss. I only met your dad a few times, but he was obviously a very fine man.”

  The churchwomen usher the two of us into the living room. Reverend Gordon says that she stopped by the hospital to visit Mom. She's sympathetic sounding, yet doesn't speak to me as if I'm a child, the way some adults still do. If anything it's the reverse, and Reverend Gordon talks to me as if we're the same age.

  “So you asked my mother about the arrangements?” I'm hopeful since I really have no idea about what to do. I mean, I assume Dad wanted to be buried, but I'm not sure if we own plots anywhere and how one goes about arranging such a thing. I haven't even been a regular churchgoer since age fourteen. If God is everywhere, the way my parents claim, it doesn't seem necessary to have a designated time and place for chewing the fat each week.

  I sit down on the couch and Reverend Gordon seats herself alongside of me. She looks me directly in the eyes and says, “Hallie, your mom is still in shock … and it may take a while … later today they're going to transfer her to the Dale-wood Rehabilitation Center about five miles from—”

  I leap up and shout, “Dalewood—that's where the crazy people are. My mother isn't crazy!”

  Reverend Gordon rises, too, as if we're playing Simon Says. “Of course she's not crazy. Your mom is just experiencing some depression and they can help her there.”

  “Dalewood!” I drop back down on the couch and so does Reverend Gordon, though much more gracefully than I. That used to be the big joke in school, “Did you just get out of Dale-wood?” Even the teachers would threaten to ship us off to Dale-wood.

  “I think we should proceed with the funeral arrangements,” Reverend Gordon suggests. “If your mother is able to come, that's fine, and if not, then there can always be a memorial service later on—even a year from now.”

  I just stare at her. Funeral? Memorial Service? Dalewood! The words start to lose their meanings. Snow is whirling outside the window and I feel like walking out into the middle of it.

  “How about this coming Thursday?” she suggests. “Perhaps you can send something about your father over to the newspaper and say the funeral will be held at the church on Thursday at two P.M. Or if you'd rather, I can stop back here tonight and then fax it from my office.”

  “Okay. I'll—I'll send something over.”

  Reverend Gordon asks me a number of questions about the service—who Dad might have wanted to speak, his favorite scripture, songs, or poems. But unfortunately I don't have any answers for her. The dinner table conversation usually revolved around reprimanding whoever was dropping peas into someone else's milk or shoving bacon down his throat like a sword swallower, rather than recitations of anyone's favorite verse. Dad's favorite phrases, on the other hand, are a cinch: Who is going to pay for that? What were you thinking? Don't make me pull over! What do I look like to you, a bank?. Somehow I doubt they're the kinds of things generally incorporated into eulogies. Placing head in hands, I attempt to come up with something slightly more inspired.

  The Reverend Gordon must interpret my loss for words as a sign that it's time for an evaluation of my own mental state, obviously concerned that a mother-daughter suite at Dalewood might be on the horizon.

  “Are you all right?” She places a comforting hand on my shoulder and her eyes search to meet mine.

  What choice do I have? If I lose it, then all these kids get dumped on Louise. Speaking of which, “Where is Louise?” I shout out to no one in particular. She should probably be in on this stuff.

  A churchwoman appears from around the corner and, while wiping her hands on one of my mother's aprons, gives a quick report on the state of the household. “Louise is upstairs having a rest, the children are downstairs being led in games by Agatha, the twins were fed and are down for a nap, and Eric will be home for dinner after accompanying your mother to the rest facility.”

  So that's going to be our euphemism for the acorn academy— a rest facility.

  Bernard comes downstairs to say that he wasn't able to find any supplemental insurance policies. However, he did locate a map of the cemetery where Dad's parents are buried, and it would appear that my folks filled out some forms and intended to buy plots there as well, but never did.

  “Eric and I had better go over there tomorrow,” I say.

  Bernard leans in close in case anyone is listening. “Don't pay extra for monthly flowers. It's one red geranium after the next. We'll do it ourselves.”

  “Mom's in Dalewood,” I tell him. My voice quivers and I can feel tears burning the corners of my eyes.

  Without missing a beat Bernard says, “A little R and R is probably the best thing.”

  “But it's a mental hospital!” My voice involuntarily rises an octave.

  “It doesn't mean anything is wrong,” he states with conviction. “Why, when the great Broadway lyricist Lorenz Hart was institutionalized at Doctors Hospital in New York, his partner Richard Rodgers simply moved into the next room, had them send up the piano Cole Porter used when he was a patient, and they wrote a show together!”

  As always, Bernard, the King of Denial, has a theatrical anecdote for the situation. Only he could think to suggest that going to Dalewood might be just the thing to spark Mom's creativity.

  Reverend Gordon chimes in with words of encouragement, but doesn't go so far as to suggest that Mom might very well pen the next Pal Joey during her confinement.

  After giving me an Ethel Merman-sized hug, Bernard gathers his things and promises to call after the girls are in bed. Reverend Gordon follows him out the front door, and I can see that they stop in the driveway together to talk for a moment.

  Soon afterward the churchwomen exit as well, though not before leaving dinner on the table and pledging to check on us in the morning and drop off some more hot dishes then, too. Apparently they've evaluated Aunt Lala for proficiency in the core competencies of running a household and taken the view that after recuperating from the long journey, she'll be able to handle things until Mom returns. Well, I've got some news for them. While Aunt Lala might talk a good domestic game, anything she finally manages to do always has to be redone. Or as Uncle Fred likes to say about her master's degree in medievalism that's been in the works for almost two decades, Aunt Lala seems to be several knights short of a crusade.

  TEN

  ONCE THE TWINS ARE DOWN FOR THE NIGHT AND THE YOUNGER children are put to bed, or at least imprisoned in their rooms and operating handheld video games beneath the covers, Eric turns to Aunt Lala, Louise, and me, and states, “We need to have a family meeting.” The four of us sit down around the dining room table and Teddy silently hovers in the entranceway

  “What about Teddy?” I ask Eric.

  Teddy is twelve now and definitely not stupid. He may not look very imposing, being string-bean thin with jug-handle ears; however, his wide, keen eyes don't miss much. Teddy is quiet, too, in the same way that Mom can be. You're never really sure if he's okay and just thinking, or if he's really worried about something and not saying anything. Once he waited four hours to tell anyone that his arm was broken.

  When Eric arrived back from the hospital he took Teddy o
ut for a burger and broke the news to him. I sure didn't have the strength. And it's hard to tell if Louise is still freaking out about Dad, or if she's just trying to avoid doing any work. For every hour that Louise spends downstairs, she's up in the bedroom for three, instant messaging with her boyfriend, Brandt, or lying on her bed and writing in a journal.

  “We're going to try and figure out what to do,” Eric calls over to Teddy. “Would you like to join us?”

  I'm sort of amazed to hear Eric sounding so grown-up. Usually when the two of us are together we fall back into our old patterns of making fun of each other—I tease him about being a hulking sports star and he jibes me about being the black sheep of the family.

  Teddy continues to stand in the archway without acknowledging Eric's invitation and so we decide to go ahead. Only where do you start when time has been shattered into splinters and grief sits as immovable as the dining room table.

  Aunt Lala finally begins, “Your dad's brother, Alan, is going to fly from Camp Drum in upstate New York where he's running the army base.”

  I can only hope that she told him the right day.

  “Aunt Vi—your great-aunt—can't leave Uncle Russ since he had the stroke,” says Aunt Lala. “I suppose that's it for the relatives.”

  Mom and Aunt Lala had an older sister named Florence but she died in some sort of swimming accident in her twenties. At least that's what we kids have always been told. Every time the name Florence is spoken they immediately say “God rest her soul.”

  “There's no way of telling how long Mom might be at Dale-wood,” says Eric. “No one over there will get anywhere close to giving an answer. You'd think I was asking for the nuclear launch codes.” He pauses and then looks directly at me. “But I'm sure she won't be there for more than a week or two.”

  Eric keeps a measured tone in making his responses and observations, the way Dad always did when talking to adults. It's obvious that he's been very upset the past couple days—since arriving home he's worn that same set jaw and furrowed brow that he gets only when about to make a crucial play in a football game. Eric has been leading sports teams since playing T-ball when he was six, and he instinctively knows that whatever feelings or emotions are expressed by the captain, so goes the team. This is good because the little kids are definitely taking their cues from his calm demeanor. Yet it also serves to make me wary of his optimism.

  It becomes apparent that either Eric or I will have to stay at home for a while. And it becomes even more apparent that the leading candidate is me. Not so much because I'm the girl, though perhaps there's a little of that, but because Eric is on a full scholarship and studying accounting—a field that actually pays good money. Worst case, in two and a half years he'll graduate and help support the family if need be. My prospects in graphic design aren't nearly as good.

  “Okay,” I say. “I'll phone the bursar's office tomorrow to see if I can withdraw from my current classes and get a refund.”

  Eric claims to be aware that I'm drawing the short straw on this one, as he'll go back to Indiana on Monday, play football, and life will continue on much as it had before. He places his hand on mine, something he's never done before, looks directly into my eyes, as if we're making a blood pact, and says, “I promise that I'll make sure you finish school, even if I have to live at home after graduation.”

  “I'm sure it won't come to that,” Aunt Lala chimes in.

  “Money is going to be pretty tight.” Eric states the obvious. “We can't afford baby-sitters or day care. I mean, just with what we spend on food and mortgage payments—”

  “I'll take care of the kids,” I assure him. Ever since Rev. Gordon uttered the word Dalewood, I guess I've known it would end up like this.

  “I'll check on your mother in the morning,” says Aunt Lala. “I'm sure she'll be fine in a day or two. It was just such a sudden shock is all.”

  “I'll go with you,” Teddy announces from his place in the doorway. He's such a quiet shadowy kid it's easy to forget that he's in the room.

  We look at one another but nobody objects.

  “I suppose it's okay,” says Eric. “In the morning I'd better call my coach and tell him that I'll be back Friday night. There's a championship game on Saturday.”

  It's true that Eric enjoys football, and Dad certainly loved the fact that he had a superstar son, but we both realize he's not returning for his dedication to the game so much as the necessity of hanging on to that four-year scholarship. A fifty-thousand-dollar insurance policy is hardly enough money to pay for one education, forget ten of them.

  ELEVEN

  SLEEPING ARRANGEMENTS ARE DISCUSSED AND WE TURN MOM and Dad's room over to Aunt Lala. I continue to crash on the living room couch and Eric uses the one in the basement. Before going to bed he helps me move the twins’ cribs downstairs in case they wake up during the night.

  It's after eleven when I finally tumble onto the couch, still in my clothes. Sleep is elusive and I decide if I'm still not drowsy in another twenty minutes, I'll take some of that knockout cold medicine Mom keeps in the cabinet above the refrigerator, though I don't want to be completely stoned if the boys start crying in the middle of the night.

  Winter has frosted the living room windows with its icy blue breath and headlights move across the far wall whenever a car passes. One set of beams grows larger and I can hear the sound of tires crunching snow in the driveway.

  The hall clock chimes midnight. I suddenly recall this TV show about a robber with a friend who worked at a hospital and tipped him off whenever the man of the house died so he could break in and steal stuff while everyone was preoccupied. Once the crook strolled right into a house after the funeral with all the guests still there and looted the entire upstairs.

  Sure enough, instead of hearing a knock or the doorbell, I see a large shadowy figure attempting to peep in the windows. I jump up to call for Eric when a light shines through the long pane of glass next to the door. It occurs to me that a robber probably wouldn't park the getaway car in the driveway, and I remember the one person who has been visibly absent throughout this entire drama.

  I open the front door and there's the bulky but familiar Officer Rich standing with hat in one hand and heavy-duty flashlight that doubles as a nightstick in the other. Officer Rich has always been my safety net in times of trouble, and even though there's nothing he can pull out of his law enforcement bag of tricks to right this particular wrong, it's still a huge relief to see him standing there.

  After pushing the door open the rest of the way to accommodate his hefty frame, Officer Rich steps inside and we stand in the dark front hall staring at each other for a moment. Though he's known to be a warm and affectionate family man, Officer Rich doesn't exactly go around hugging people. Finally he puts his big arm around my shoulders and I switch on the overhead light.

  “I was testifying at a case in Cleveland for two days,” he says. “Jeanette called and told me what happened and I came as soon as I could.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “How you holding up, kiddo?” he asks.

  If another person called me “kiddo” I'd definitely be annoyed, but Officer Rich has never treated me like a child. If anything, it's always been just the opposite—he lets me in on stuff that a lot of grown-ups don't even know about. At the end of the day it's obvious that he really cares about the town, and after being the main patrolman here for thirty years, Officer Rich views us all as his personal charges, wanting us to be not only safe but happy.

  “There's just so much to do that I haven't really stopped to think about it,” I say. “I mean, I don't want to stop and think about it because I'm afraid I won't be able to get going again.”

  He nods with understanding and doesn't say anything, like when people are describing a crime and you don't want to cut them off before they've had a chance to rummage through their memory for all the details.

  “Mom is taking it especially hard. They put her in … Dale-wood.” Only it's clear
from the way I say the name that he's aware of what I'm really thinking.

  “It's just until she's rested,” he says in that deep, reassuring voice. “I know you kids always joke about Dalewood being the loony bin, but it's really a good place.”

  We sit down on the couch and Officer Rich continues, “Far be it from me to name names, but I could give you a list of people in this town who have spent time at Dalewood for everything from eating and sleeping disorders to drug and alcohol rehab to personality disorders and even bad cases of postpartum depression, and you'd be very surprised indeed. Not everyone who claims to be on vacation in this town is in the Bahamas.” He italicizes the word vacation.

  “I suppose,” I say.

  “You've watched too many movies about people being locked up in dark cells and pulling their hair out.”

  He's certainly right about that. And it dawns on me that he probably knows a lot about something else, too. Officer Rich often deals with records for the town clerk, especially with regard to deaths. “I always thought my parents were the same age—Dad's birthday is in April and Mom's is two weeks later in May of the same year. Dad used to joke about it—saying that April showers bring May flowers.”

  The normally perceptive Officer Rich looks at me as if he's totally flummoxed.

  “But when I was sorting through the papers to find our insurance policies, I found their birth certificates and Mom's says she was born two years later than Dad!”

  “Look.” I hand the papers to Officer Rich and turn on the nearby lamp.

  He takes out his reading glasses and examines the two documents.

  “Do you think Mom changed it for some reason?” I ask.

  “Changed her age or the certificate?” asks Officer Rich.

  “The certificate—you know, like teenagers change their ID so they can get into bars.” I suddenly realize that this probably isn't the kind of thing one should be mentioning to the local constabulary, especially considering that at eighteen and a half I'm firmly among the population of underaged. “I mean, that's what I've heard.”