The Big Shuffle

by Laura Pedersen

  Officer Rich gives me a crooked smile to suggest that indeed he did not spring up with the flowers after yesterday's rain.

  Holding the document up to the light, he squints at it. “No, this here is the real McCoy.”

  “Then why—”

  “Maybe your parents were too young to marry without parental permission and so they pushed his age up a little higher to avoid having to wait.” Officer Rich takes another look at my dad's birth certificate to see if the year has been altered.

  “Are you kidding—my mother was the daughter his parents never had. In fact, I'm pretty sure I remember hearing that they gave the money for the down payment on our house!”

  He starts to chuckle while handing me back the certificates.

  “What's so funny?” I ask.

  “Folks can be peculiar about their age. There was a time not too long ago when a woman didn't want to be older than her husband. And then last week I had a lady down at the hospital insisting she was fifty-nine. She didn't have insurance, so they called her son to ask who was paying for the operation. He said, ‘Insurance? She's seventy-two years old and completely covered by Medicare!’ ”

  “But Mom is claiming to be two years older than she actually is, not younger.”

  “Then probably she was the one who couldn't get permission from her parents,” he suggests. “So they told a white lie.”

  “I suppose that's what happened.” It would explain Aunt Lala's reaction. Though my mother isn't in favor of any kind of lying, no matter what the color.

  “It's late,” says Officer Rich as he rises. “And I've got to stop by the station to see the reports made while I was away and get a list of any lunatics who may be loose in our area.”

  This is meant to be a joke because rarely anything criminal ever happens around here, but I can tell Officer Rich is sorry he used the word lunatics under the circumstances.

  We walk to the front door and he says, “I'll come by to check on things. The synagogue is just up the street.” To anyone who doesn't live in town this might sound like an odd statement since Officer Rich, who is African American and has a St. Christopher statue on his dashboard, is the last person you would guess to be Jewish. And he isn't. There aren't more than a dozen Jewish families in town, and that's the problem. At least ten are required in order to hold daily prayers, and so he swings by the synagogue right before lunch every day and often makes up the tenth.

  Fortunately he doesn't say “Call if you need anything,” because I don't know what to say to that one anymore. Basically what I need is: Dad alive, Mom home, a lot of money, and, failing all of that, someone who wants to change diapers and feed and bathe twins all day long. Oh yeah, and someone to keep Aunt Lala from burning the house to the ground by putting bottles in a pot of water on the stove, turning the burner on high, and then taking the twins downstairs to the playroom and forgetting all about the bottles.

  It's impossible to sleep. And I can't exactly call Bernard at one o'clock in the morning. Craig! He'd left several messages during the day, but it had been difficult to talk with all of the commotion around here. I curl up on the couch and dial his dorm room at the University of Minnesota. He sounds relieved to hear from me and still completely flabbergasted by what's happened. I tell him that the funeral is on Thursday afternoon.

  “Then I'll fly home on Thursday morning,” he announces.

  It's a sweet offer, but I tell him no because he can't afford to miss all those science labs and lacrosse practices.

  “I already told my professors that I have to go home for a few days,” Craig insists.

  Of course I'm secretly thrilled. It will be so nice to have a shoulder to cry on and a hand to hold. Eric and Louise are as gobsmacked as I am right now and it's useless for us to complain to one another. If anything, we're trying not to express our worst fears—the main one being that Mom doesn't ever come home.

  “And I quit lacrosse,” Craig adds in a nonchalant voice.

  “Why?” I ask. “Did you get hurt?” It would be just like Craig to be sitting there with his leg in a cast and not say anything.

  “No, nothing like that,” he says. “It just took up too much time.”

  Still, I find this odd. Craig has always been a good student and never had to work all that hard to get A's and B's. But I'm too preoccupied with my own family tragedy to pursue the matter. It's just so good to hear the sound of his comforting and familiar voice. We talk for a long time—Craig recounts how he and another guy got lost in the woods while collecting mold samples for botany and had to be rescued by a platoon of ROTC students who made it into a reconnaissance exercise.

  Then I tell him about Mom being transferred to Dalewood and how Aunt Lala made sticky buns with Francie to cheer her up, but forgot to add the yeast and so they never rose any higher than the pan. And the way the church ladies force the kids to play Bible Scattergories for hours on end. They're quite the linguists, too, never seeming to tire of pointing out how the words SILENT and LISTEN contain the exact same letters and that DANGER is ANGER with a D.

  TWELVE

  ASNOWPLOW ROARS DOWN THE STREET AT FIVE IN THE MORNING and I wake up still trapped inside the same horrible after-school special that doesn't seem to want to end. In fact, it gets worse when I hear the heavy metal blade scrape up against my front porch. Obviously the driver has passed out at the wheel and lost complete control of his vehicle.

  I open the front door to find Al Santora lurching up the driveway in a big town plow and clearing the two feet of snow in minutes. He waves his hat from the cab, and I pull on a pair of Mom's boots that are by the door.

  A pale winter sun is rising in the distance and the trees had taken on a thick coating of ice during the night. The rooftops are blanketed with fluffy layers of snow that make the houses appear as if they belong in a gingerbread village. The entire neighborhood has a gauzy, dreamlike quality.

  Al shifts the rumbling machine down to idle, leans out the window, and shouts over the still-growling engine. “It's terrible about your dad. I'm really sorry.”

  “Yeah, it's a nightmare.” Thick flakes of snow stick to my eyelashes and dissolve on my lips as we talk. “Mom is at Dalewood.”

  Al nods as if he's heard all the details.

  “Nice set of wheels.” I nod at the orange plow with the gold Cosgrove County seal painted on the side. Last I'd heard, Al had been laid off from the water authority and was collecting unemployment.

  “It's my new job until April.” He gives me a half smile that I take to mean, When you have a stay-at-home wife and four kids, you take what you can get. “One of the guys is out on disability and this way I keep up my benefits.”

  Al had a nice gig before—he wore a suit and scheduled inspections. Now I see there are bags under his eyes and his lips are chapped and cracked from the cold.

  “We had six more inches since midnight.” Al points to the section of the road where he's plowed.

  When I look down the block, it's impossible to tell where the street ends and the sky begins.

  “A big storm is coming in from Erie,” he warns. “I've got to keep moving.” He cranks the engine back up and throws his plow into reverse. “Turn on the radio,” he shouts over the noise of gears crunching. “The superintendent just called my boss and they might close the schools.”

  What Al doesn't say is that he shouldn't be seen plowing individual driveways with taxpayer dollars or, worse, make someone think that he's earning a little extra on the side. But it's a huge relief for me right now. Teddy can clear up the front walk easily enough after breakfast, though Dad always liked to say that the hardest math problem ever invented was how to get five feet of boy to shovel one foot of snow.

  While mouthing “thanks” I wave at Al and then dash back into the house.

  The twins are still sleeping soundly and so I head toward the kitchen to make some coffee and switch on the radio. Though it doesn't really matter if school is closed because our gang wasn't going anyway. Today E
ric and I somehow have to break the news.

  When I open the fridge, I notice that the churchwomen have reorganized the whole interior and left two dozen sandwiches, complete with labels describing the contents, date made, and expiration. What's not there is the milk, and I know we had a full gallon. When things are missing in the kitchen, all roads lead to Aunt Lala.

  Gently knocking on Mom's door, I say, “Aunt Lala—have you seen the gallon of milk that was in the fridge last night?”

  “Oh dear,” comes the frazzled voice from inside the bedroom. The door opens to reveal Aunt Lala in her nightgown with a complicated set of hair rollers dangling in front of her face and a large circle of pale green cream surrounding each eye.

  “Did you check the freezer?” she asks.

  “First thing,” I say.

  “What could have happened to it?” she asks. “I wasn't able to sleep and went down for some tea in the middle of the night. Do you think I may have put it back in the cupboard with the cookies?”

  “I think you could have,” I say with fake cheerfulness. Aunt Lala always feels terrible about making so many mistakes. We hate for her to feel bad and so hide her oversights whenever possible. A knightly quest if there ever was one.

  Sure enough, the milk is in the cabinet above the sink, next to the cookies. I sniff it to determine whether it's spoiled. Smells okay to me. Just to be sure, I'll use the first child to arrive for breakfast as a taste tester and if that one vomits or collapses I'll mix up a batch of powdered milk for the rest.

  The radio announcer reads a list of local closings in alphabetical order—a 4H club meeting, most of the area private schools, some church activities, and a Hebrew school class. It's a local joke that the world would have to be ending for our public school system to close. Most of the administrators were once public school students around here, so I often think they want to make sure that today's kids suffer as much as they did before the invention of fleece jackets and waterproof boots.

  Darlene shuffles into the kitchen wearing her footsie pajamas. She starts to say something, but I place my finger to my lips and point to the radio just as the announcer says, “Here it is, folks—Patrick Henry School District is closed!” He says this like a game show host declaring a big winner.

  Darlene looks up at me expectantly.

  “Yup,” I say. “That's you. No school today.”

  She races through the house screeching, “Thcool ith clofed, thchool ith clofed!”

  I'm reminded that this means there won't be any speech therapy for Darlene today. The lisp is definitely improving, but there's still a ways to go before she's knocking back, Silly Sally sells seashells by the seashore.

  THIRTEEN

  BY LUNCHTIME I FEEL AS IF I'M SLEEPWALKING AND THE KIDS’ voices are coming from an echo chamber.

  Bernard arrives shortly after one o'clock with a bottle of designer conditioner and a brand-new blow dryer. He hugs and kisses me like we're acting out a tragedy in a movie scene. “Are you surviving?”

  “It's really weird.” I grope for the right words to describe the surrealism of the past two days, how it's as if I'm standing at a distance from life. “I keep thinking I'm going to wake up and everything will be back to how it was—but instead it's like being stuck in a science-fiction movie. Only there aren't any killer robots to beat back, no magic ring to get rid of, no time machine to repair, and therefore no way to travel back to yesterday.”

  “Courage, mon brave!” says Bernard, and places his hands on my shoulders while tipping his forehead toward mine as if he's knighting me or transferring some sort of secret powers.

  Gazing out the window only adds to the bizarreness of my current situation. It's no longer possible to see the houses across the street, or even the street, for that matter.

  “How on earth did you get over here?” I ask.

  “It certainly wouldn't have been possible in that fantastically stylish but reliably unreliable vintage Alfa Romeo. Whereas my new Volvo zips right through the snow and ice. It's even moose-proof!”

  “Moose-proof?”

  “My family will survive hitting a moose,” Bernard states with authority.

  “There aren't any moose around here that I'm aware of, aside from the guys who own the lodge up on Route 5.”

  “We have plenty of deer,” says the unsinkable Bernard. “Now I hate to turn your attention back to the events at hand, but I've come to measure the children for their outfits. Thank Goddess it's early winter and the stores are still carrying some black and navy.”

  “I didn't even think of clothes,” I said. “Try not to spend much.” Bernard is constantly buying expensive dresses for his daughters. Gigi doesn't mind, but Rose tends to start pulling hers apart the minute he's out of sight.

  “Don't worry about a thing,” says Bernard. He glances at all the flowers and fruit baskets from Dad's office coworkers pushed off in the corner. “It will be my contribution instead of a fruit basket.” He spots the family photo on the mantel, sighs, and adds, “Life is so laissez unfaire.”

  “We haven't told the little kids yet,” I explain. “Only Teddy knows.”

  “I see,” says Bernard. “I'll simply eyeball the measurements and hedge on the larger side. If need be, we'll just do a nip and tuck here and there. Can your Aunt Lala sew?”

  Aunt Lala has just walked out of the kitchen, teary-eyed after watching Lillian crawl around saying, “Mama, Mama.”

  “I wouldn't count on it,” I whisper to Bernard. “If Aunt Lala manages to get dressed and visit my mom at Dalewood this morning, it will be a minor miracle.” As if on cue the toaster begins to smolder and I discover that Aunt Lala has put two thin slices of bread in there and then switched it on high before exiting.

  “If only Mother were here.” From the sigh in Bernard's voice I can tell that he wishes Olivia were back for a lot more than just sewing alterations. The constant bickering aside, they really do depend on each other, and it's obvious that he's been a bit lost with her away for an extended period of time.

  “Have you heard anything from Olivia and Ottavio lately?” I ask. “She sent me a postcard from Florence around Christmastime.”

  Bernard perks up at the subject. “They finally left Italy after visiting Ottavio's family. And of course they had to go see all of Bernini's fountains and the great piazza in front of St. Peter's in Rome. Now they're on some Greek island, where Mother is immersing herself in poetry. Next stop are the pyramids in Egypt and the library of Alexandria, and then they'll be home in April.

  “Wow, it sounds like a great trip.”

  “I suppose I'm happy for her,” says Bernard. “Mother always loved to travel, and then Father became ill and she didn't go anywhere for years, except that quick trip to Florida.”

  “I suppose it's best to go places whenever you can.” I don't mean to refer to the fact that I might be stuck here in this house raising these kids for the next ten years, but I guess that's how it sounds. And who knows, maybe it is what I mean. I keep telling myself that it's horribly wrong and selfish to be thinking about my own life at a terrible time like this, but it does creep into the back of my mind.

  “Yes, one never knows what tomorrow will bring,” Bernard says philosophically. “Now why don't you fix your hair while I find the children.”

  After washing my hair again, only this time with a half bottle of conditioner, I struggle with a brush and the hair dryer to try to bring it under control. Instead I end up looking like the Cowardly Lion from The Wizard of Oz.

  When I finally give up and switch off the dryer, the phone is ringing. I swear the thing starts at seven in the morning and doesn't stop until eleven o'clock at night. We had an answering machine for about a week, until Davy attempted to convert it into a two-way radio. I go to pick up the phone in Mom and Dad's room, but the handset is nowhere in sight, so I hurry downstairs to the kitchen. A disheveled Aunt Lala comes around the corner buttoning up her coat, the belt dragging along the floor behind her. “That must b
e the taxi company calling.”

  A taxi in this weather? I wonder about that. As I grab the telephone the doorbell rings. Perhaps there is a cab out front. Only the dispatcher is telling me he can't get a driver out to us until later this afternoon. And that's when I hear the scream in the front hall followed by the door banging shut.

  FOURTEEN

  RACING INTO THE LIVING ROOM, I FIND AUNT LALA SHRIEKING, one hand covering her face, the other pointed at the closed front door. The bell rings again. Assuming that her histrionics are the result of general anxiety, I open the door. I, too, start screaming bloody murder. It's Dad! Only he's a lot older and has a huge mustache and beard covered with icicles like the Abominable Snowman! Chunks of white hair stick out below a stiff white hat with a black visor and a big gold anchor on the front. After slamming the door closed I quickly lock it. Dad's a ghost and has come back to haunt the house!

  Bernard arrives on the scene trailed by a bunch of curious kids while Aunt Lala and I babble from hysteria. He intuitively understands that the cause of our consternation lies on the other side of the door. Glancing out a side window, Bernard announces, “Heavens to Häagen-Dazs! It's the Ancient Mariner! He must be lost in the storm.”

  Bernard opens the door and speaks the way he does to strangers who enter his antiques shop. “Hello there, and how may I help you this afternoon?”

  “Lenny Palmer—Robert's uncle,” says the Abominable Snowman. “There weren't any cabs at the station.” He reports this news as if he didn't mind the challenge of walking a mile in a blizzard and the two icicles that are his eyebrows rise slightly.

  “Oh my goodness, come in!” says Bernard. “You must be frozen half to death.”

  The great big bear of a man with a chest like an oil drum makes the room seem to shrink down to the size of a doll's house.

  “If I were a case of herring I guess I'd still be pretty fresh,” he says in a gruff voice seasoned by wind and water. Great-Uncle Lenny removes a pair of old-fashioned black wool gloves that look as if they were abandoned by a street musician and takes off his skipper's cap to reveal a wild mane of white hair.