The Big Shuffle

by Laura Pedersen

  Aunt Lala is the first to recover from the fright. Extending her hand, she introduces herself. “I'm Lorraine, Robert's sister-in-law. I met you and a twin brother at the wedding.”

  “Yep, that was us. Only Barnacle Bill departed for Davy Jones's locker shortly after the nuptials—had a heart attack while reeling in a sailfish,” says Lenny. “Apparently it runs in the family. I'm sorry to hear about my nephew. I took a flight from the Virgin Islands and the train from Cleveland. Alan left a message at the bar.”

  His address is a bar? My eyes are fixed on this man who looks like an older, shaggy, ice-covered version of my father. So this is Great-Uncle Lenny. I'd come to think of him as a character out of a novel—chasing pirates through the Caribbean and catching fish of mythical proportions. When I was little, my dad brought home a magazine containing a story on his two identical-twin seafaring uncles.

  Lenny extends his hand. It's strong, ugly, rough, callused, and scarred. The skin is like leather that's been left outside for a decade, and no longer has the steer attached to keep it hydrated and smooth. He's a man from another world. The world of the ocean, I have to assume. Living my entire life in Ohio, I've never seen the ocean.

  Eric comes up from the basement rubbing his eyes after a short nap. He also does a double take upon seeing Uncle Lenny but doesn't start screaming like a girl.

  “This is our great-uncle Lenny,” I fill him in. “Remember Dad's father had two younger brothers who were identical twins.”

  “Sure,” Eric says and extends his hand. Even though Eric and I aren't twins, we can do a pretty good sibling telepathy when necessary.

  “Oh dear,” says Aunt Lala, and peers out the window. “I wonder what happened to my taxi?”

  “Sorry,” I say. “That was the cab company on the phone, and they're not coming until later because of the weather.”

  “I'll drive you to the hospital,” says Eric. “Let me take a quick shower.”

  “Hospital?” inquires Uncle Lenny. “But I thought—”

  “Their mother is in shock,” explains Bernard.

  “Great Caesar's ghost!” roars Uncle Lenny so that we all jump back a step. “What next?”

  Teddy appears from around the corner, where he was listening the entire time. The protruding ears give him an unmistakable silhouette.

  “Can I go with them?” asks Teddy.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “I'm off shopping.” Bernard heads toward the door. He scrutinizes my new hairstyle and grimaces. “I'll be sure to pick up a black hat for you.”

  “Your parents have such wonderful friends,” says Aunt Lala.

  It's not the time to explain that Bernard is actually my friend a lot more than Mom and Dad's.

  Just then there's a horrible crash on the stairs followed by a loud shriek.

  “Man overboard!” Uncle Lenny calls out in his booming bass.

  Aunt Lala and I dash toward the first-floor landing, where Francie, the family daredevil, is lying curled up at the bottom and Louise is approaching from the top.

  “I told you to stop sledding on the stairs!” yells an irritated Louise.

  There's blood running down Francie's chin, and I can't tell if it's coming from her nose or her mouth or the fingers she's using to cover her face. It's not until we finally manage to get her hair and hands out of the way that it's possible to see the gash below her bottom lip.

  Aunt Lala recoils at the sight of the open wound, grabs onto the railing, and looks as if she's going to pass out. “Oh dear Lord!”

  By the sound of Francie's howls one would think I was performing a skin graft, but it actually appears not to be that bad. And she doesn't seem to have knocked any more teeth out.

  “We'd better go to the emergency room just to be on the safe side,” I say. “She may need a few stitches.”

  Francie screams even louder upon hearing my unwelcome diagnosis.

  “You and I can take Francie to the emergency room, and Aunt Lala can go with Louise to see Mom,” says Eric.

  “Who is going to watch the rest of the kids?” I ask.

  The phone starts ringing in the background. Now what? Are we supposed to evacuate the area due to nuclear fallout?

  “Louise will have to stay here and watch the kids,” I say.

  Louise gives me a look indicating that she's over child care.

  I put a Band-Aid over Francie's cut and bundle her up.

  “Darlene, Davy, and Lillian can go outside, but not for more than an hour. Be sure to put Wonder bread bags over their socks since their boots leak.” I sound like Mom.

  Uncle Lenny is standing in the living room. I'd forgotten about the surprise sailor situation. “Make yourself at home,” I say as we hurtle out of the door.

  It's cold and the roads to the hospital are still icy. The good news is that the storm has slowed down business at the emergency room. There's just one guy with chest pains whose wife is yelling at him about being too cheap to hire a plow service.

  After a quick examination we're given some baby aspirin and a butterfly bandage is applied to Francie's lip. The doctor makes some notations about Francie's various scars, the knocked-out front teeth, and the still-fresh lump on her forehead from the living room fall the other day. I can tell he's wondering whether she's really this accident-prone or if we're throwing her down the stairs on a regular basis. Then he asks me to leave the room for a moment. Great. She'd better not tell one of her crazy stories and land me in jail.

  Apparently the doctor is satisfied with their conversation. At least for now. And thus the big surprise turns out not to be what happens at the hospital but the scene awaiting me back at the house.

  FIFTEEN

  LOUISE!” I CALL OUT. THERE'S NO SIGN OF DINNER BEING STARTED and the table isn't set. Not only that, there are no signs of children. I look out the basement window to the backyard. No one. Racing up the stairs to the second floor, I'm relieved to see light coming from underneath the closed door of Louise and Darlene's room.

  Louise is alone, totally engrossed in reorganizing the closet.

  “Louise! Where is everybody?” Panic edges my voice.

  “Francie and Lillian's room,” she replies without looking up from her pile of sweaters.

  I dash down the hall and open the door to the girls’ room. Uncle Lenny is seated on Lillian's small bed, leaning forward so that thick muscled arms balance on tree trunk legs, telling them a story. Three little faces stare up at him transfixed, while the twins lie sleeping in their car seats. Great, the man whose address is a bar somewhere in the Caribbean is not only baby-sitting the little kids but also the ten-week-old twins.

  Catching my breath I manage to say, “Okay, we're back. Lunch in half an hour.”

  Davy excitedly fills me in on what I've missed. “Hallie! There was a man and his dog shitwrecked on an island—”

  “Thipwrecked,” Darlene corrects him. Sort of.

  Davy doesn't miss a beat. “And when they found the man's clothes and the dog's bones they couldn't tell which eated the other!”

  Davy reaches out and touches Uncle Lenny's beard. “You're God, aren't you?”

  “Don't be stupid,” says Darlene. “He's Santa Claus.”

  “You're stupid,” says Davy. “Because Santa is back at the North Pole. He only comes at Christmas. Everyone knows that.”

  Uncle Lenny shakes with laughter. Not unlike Santa Claus. Or perhaps God after hearing a really funny joke.

  The doorbell rings. I've made it only to the landing when I hear the cheerful voices of the church ladies. They unpack casseroles and fruit salads and pineapple upside-down cakes.

  I'm grateful they've come to the rescue once again. However, I'm also aware that their visits will become fewer and further between. They have their own families to get off to work and school in the mornings, and a list of community activities that require constant attention. Plus, they view Aunt Lala as one of them, probably due to her print dress, and believe that things are more or less und
er control.

  If only the church ladies knew that a large portion of Aunt Lala's day is spent playing Memory with packets of herbal tea and artificial sweeteners. Honestly, if that's all she did, I wouldn't care. But every time our paths cross Aunt Lala asks, “What's going to happen? Whatever will you do?”

  The churchwomen, on the other hand, instinctively understand that no matter what calamity is playing itself out, you keep repeating, “It's all going to be just fine! You'll see.” And though I don't believe them for a second, it's really the only thing I'm interested in hearing right now.

  As the churchwomen march past me and into the kitchen with their bright smiles and hair pulled neatly back, I wish I could be more like them, absorbing life's unexpected turns as easily as they adjust to changes in the weather.

  SIXTEEN

  ON THE MORNING OF THE FUNERAL I WAKE UP JUST AFTER four A.M. I'm ground down by exhaustion and sorrow and yet it's impossible to sleep.

  Finally a sliver of pink dawn begins to creep over the horizon. Outside the window snow falls softly through the bare trees and onto the empty yards and rooftops.

  I rise and drag myself through the paces of feeding and bathing the younger children while Eric heads off to the hospital to see if Mom will be able to attend the funeral.

  At half past one I start herding the kids into the car. “Come on, it's time to leave for the church,” I announce in my best let's-sound-like-Mom voice. Eric has the station wagon and there's no way we can fit ten people and two babies into the van, so Aunt Lala, Uncle Lenny, Davy, and Darlene have to ride in a taxi.

  As we're going out the door the phone rings and I rush to answer it.

  “Mom's not going to be able to make it,” says Eric.

  While backing out of the driveway it comes to my attention that Louise is missing. I rush back inside and almost rip the slacks to my new black pantsuit while taking the steps two at a time.

  Louise is lying across the bed and talking on the phone. Clothed all in black, she looks stunningly beautiful, with her swan-necked elegance and ballerina body.

  “C'mon, Louise,” I say impatiently. “We have to go!”

  Louise draws her slender shoulders together as if she's cold and gives me the one-minute sign with her finger. Meantime, one of the kids starts leaning on the horn in the driveway. They know they're not supposed to do that unless it's an emergency. Oh no! What if the exhaust pipe is blocked with ice and they're all suffocating to death?

  “Louise, now!”

  She gives me a nasty look, whispers something into the receiver, and tosses the phone onto the bed. I grab her arm and start pulling her toward the door.

  “It was Brandt!” she says, as if this explains everything.

  “What can the two of you possibly have to talk about for six hours straight every single day?” Whenever I ask Louise to help, she's on the phone with Brandt, who is studying at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

  “Just lunar phases, solar system debris, and the fate of our sun, for your information,” she replies haughtily.

  “You're kidding me, right?” I ask as we hurry out the front door. It's an obscure collection of problems to be brooding about right before our father's funeral.

  “The sun will end up a compact white dwarf held in place by strange quantum-mechanical forces after expelling its outer layers to form a bubble of flowing gas,” continues Louise.

  “And I'll be roasting hot dogs for eight kids over the flames,” I say. “Get in the car!”

  Finally we're under way. The snowstorm has passed and the carpet of white is now broken by the tracks of newspaper carriers, mailpersons, and children building forts and snowmen. The church parking lot overflows with cars. Men in dark overcoats and plaid scarves hold up women wearing black-netted pillbox hats and long wool coats so that they don't slip on the ice while making their way to the main entrance.

  Bernard and Gil are waiting for us in the vestibule. Taking Reggie out of my arms, Bernard asks, “How did the younger children take the news?”

  “They think Uncle Lenny is God and had to take Dad away and aren't interested in any other version of the story at this particular time.”

  “Très intéressant,” says Bernard.

  Strong arms grab me from behind and what feels like the start of a takedown turns out to be my athletic friend Jane. “Oh Hallie, this is so terrible! I tried to get here sooner, but the driving was horrible.”

  “Mom's in Dalewood,” I whisper.

  My friend Gwen's parents rush forward. Mrs. Thompson is easily recognizable by the silk leopard print scarf that adorns her black wool dress. Gwen's mother exudes grief the way other people give off the scent of perfume. She attempts to say something but immediately begins sobbing and then practically falls forward, wrapping her arms around me and sinking that Mount Rushmore bosom directly into my rib cage as a violent burst of Chanel No. 5 further stifles my breathing. If I was wearing high heels and not flats, we'd both be on the floor with Gwen's mom on top.

  Fortunately Mr. Thompson rescues the situation by taking his wife's arm and gently drawing her to his side. Turning to me, he says, “We're so sorry that Gwen couldn't make it from California for the funeral. She's been trying to call you, but it's impossible to get through.” What is unspoken here is that my dad was the only person in Cosgrove County who would not pay for call waiting. Or caller ID. Or cable TV.

  It's impossible for me to take a single step without someone known or unknown speaking very close to my face. One woman describes Dad as being “taken from us,” as if he's been kidnapped by aliens.

  Bernard steers me to a place in the front row where he's organized the children. There's a clear view of the highly polished black casket with gold handles. It's difficult to comprehend that Dad is inside that … that box, while we're over here lining the pew.

  Aunt Lala and Uncle Lenny are each holding one of the twins, both of whom are sound asleep. Teddy sits somberly in the pew while Davy, Darlene, and Francie push and poke one another. Only tiny Lillian sits quietly in her little navy dress and stockings, with her legs dangling over the edge of the pew, looking wide-eyed at the enormous stained-glass window of the angel whispering to Mary. Lillian looks like a “mini-me,” with the same long strawberry-blond hair, pink skin, and hazel eyes. The only other difference is that her freckles are just emerging, whereas mine have begun to fade.

  Eric hurries up the aisle as the minister approaches the podium. There's a commotion next to me that results in Davy, Darlene, and Francie all elbowing one another.

  “Stop messing around this instant!” Eric hisses in a deep stage whisper.

  The children immediately obey him, sitting meekly and staring down at their laps. This is in striking contrast to the way they basically ignore my directives, no matter how much I yell and threaten them.

  Turning my head, I scan the back of the sanctuary for Craig.

  He said there was a flight from Minneapolis this morning that had plenty of room. Surely he would know to look for us up front. The church is almost filled to capacity, but pale-faced mourners continue to spill through the doors. Ushers in dark gray suits scurry up and down the aisles trying to find seats for those gathered at the back. Some of the men drift about like museum goers, uncertain of how long to stay in a certain place or exactly how to comment upon the events, taking their cues from others. Yet the women move efficiently, quickly taking in who is here, where they're seated, and probably even what they're wearing.

  Suddenly I wish that I'd worn the long black gloves Bernard brought over, which I decided were just a bit too Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's. My hands are freezing and my fingers practically numb. Whether it's from the cold or my nerves I don't know. It's no longer possible to feel where I end and the world begins.

  SEVENTEEN

  NANCY GORDON, THE INTERIM MINISTER, RISES FROM HER HIGH backed chair and approaches the dais. The crowd settles, with just a few heavy bronchial coughs echoing throughout the sanc
tuary.

  “We're gathered here today in the spirit of Christ to celebrate the life of Robert Palmer,” she announces, as if some of us may have put on our black clothes and rolled up at the wrong church. No one rises to leave and so she continues, “And to offer worship, praise, and thanksgiving to God for the gift of life, which has now been returned to God, the author of life and the hope of the just.”

  In no time at all scripture is swirling through the air the same way that hunks of wet snow were flying around yesterday. “God loves you, abides with you, and will not forsake you in these moments and in the days of readjustment and reorientation that lie ahead of you,” she informs us. “This is surely the message of the Jesus.”

  Sometimes I can hear what's being said and other times I can't. A roar like the bottom of a waterfall is inside my head, and I just barely manage to make it from one heartbeat to the next.

  At the other end of the pew I hear sniffing and the rustling of tissues and look down to see Louise with tears streaming down her face. This has the effect of making Darlene cry. Aunt Lala has raccoon eyes from wiping at her mascara, while little red rivers of burst capillaries stand out on her nose and cheeks in the places where she's swabbed off her foundation makeup.

  A man who worked with Dad talks about what a devoted family man and wonderful coworker my father was. Certainly no one is going to jump up and dispute that.

  Eric strides up to the podium and reads Psalm 46. His voice comes across clear and strong, especially during the part about “therefore we will not fear, though the Earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea.” I hear sniffles and sobs reverberating throughout the sanctuary. Although Eric is as big and powerful as Dad, he doesn't bear a strong resemblance to our father. But Eric sounds exactly like Dad.

  I was asked to speak but said no. Basically everyone here is aware that I left home at fifteen, play cards, and then there was all that nonsense about the missing money. Besides, what would I say? I doubt that a Bible verse from an underage gambler would go down real well today.