My eyelids begin to droop. I shake my head to signify my horror at how the family almost fell apart while all I could do was stand by and watch, or, rather, fall down while watching.
“You need to stop worrying about how everyone else is doing and get some rest.”
Olivia stands up. “I'll get you a nice bowl of soup. You're skinny enough to pass for a Brancusi.”
“Huh?” I'm a bit groggy for one of Olivia's impromptu art history classes.
“He was the Romanian-born French sculptor known for a simple and streamlined geometric style intended to lay bare an image's underlying nature.”
For some reason the word bare brings to mind the story of Old Mother Hubbard who went to the cupboard. “What about dinner and the lunches and—”
“Pastor Costello ran Bible camp for eight summers. You'd be amazed at how organized he is!”
Sinking my head back into the pillows, I close my eyes, but the light fixture continues to burn in my brain like a giant sun.
“When you feel a bit better you'll have to let the rest of us in on the secret of telling the twins apart. Mrs. Muldoon said there used to be a blue ribbon around the ankle of one.”
Uh-oh.
THIRTY-SEVEN
WHEN I NEXT AWAKE IT'S TO THE STRAINS OF MUSIC. THIS IS ODD because our stereo conked out years ago, after the kids covered the knobs with Play-Doh. Someone is singing.
I lie in bed for about ten minutes summoning the energy to rise—using the time to go over and over the same problem that's been on my mind since the night Dad died. This infinite loop of thought has taken up the space in my brain that should have been occupied with other things—like taking better care of the kids—but obviously wasn't.
The singing continues to drift into the bedroom. How many verses can there be?
I follow the upbeat sound of “Children of the Lord” toward the kitchen. I move slowly, using the walls to guide me, stopping every few feet to rest, and then stumbling forward like a toy whose batteries are running down. Pastor Costello has an assembly line of bread to which he's applying a piece of lettuce on top of three rashers of bacon and one slice of tomato, all while letting out an enthusiastic chorus of, “Rise and shine and give God the glory, glory, children of the Lord.”
Pastor Costello turns toward me wearing a big smile and a blue tracksuit with J.C. STATE OF MIND emblazoned on the top. “What are you doing up so early?”
“I think I fell asleep at about seven o'clock last night.”
“Yes, you missed dinner and I didn't want to wake you. How about some breakfast?”
“I am sort of starving.”
“A good appetite is a good sign,” says Pastor Costello. He takes a clean plate from a stack next to the sink, moves toward the stove, where there are two large square baking pans covered with aluminum foil, and asks, “Eggs and bacon or French toast or both?”
“Wow!” I say as Pastor Costello removes the foil to display a mound of scrambled eggs and a mountain of French toast triangles.
I take the plate and fill it with some of everything.
“Sorry there's no coffee, but I wasn't expecting any adults.” He returns to the sandwiches, wrapping them in wax paper with practically a single flick of the wrist. Sitting next to the pile of sandwiches is a row of bookmarks with a verse from scripture written on each one. “So, what's on your mind?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Looks as if something's on your mind.” When Pastor Costello has finished putting a sandwich, piece of fruit, cookie, and juice container into each bag, he drops in a bookmark before folding down the top.
“I've been wondering … I've been thinking …”
He looks up from what he's doing and over at me.
“I was wondering how many verses there are in that song you were singing.” I stare down at my plate.
Pastor Costello grins and says, “Believe me on this one, sometimes ignorance is bliss.”
A forced laugh issues from somewhere inside me. Then I blurt out, “I've been wondering if I did something to deserve all this.”
Pastor Costello sits across from me and, though I don't look up, I can feel his kind eyes looking directly at me.
“No, you didn't do anything to deserve this. In fact, you've been heroic in coping with it all. I wish that I'd been home earlier to help. It's just life, Hallie. It's the way life goes.”
“But it's so hard.” I say, and look up at him with tears in my eyes.
“We keep lifting the weight and that's how we become stronger.”
As long as I'm in it this far, I may as well go the rest of the way.
“Do you believe that bad things happen when you lead a bad life—you know, disobeying parents, having premarital sex, eating food in the grocery store.” I attempt to mask the item I'm most concerned about by sandwiching it between some older offenses.
Pastor Costello puts his hand on mine and says, “We discourage young people from vice and bad habits so they don't end up in difficult situations before reaching their potential.”
“I just mean, how many bad habits make a vice and how many vices until you're at the sin level? Is it a system of weights and measures like pints, quarts, and gallons?” I try to make sense of the problem mathematically, because that's always how I understand things best.
Pastor Costello looks at me as if this formula is one of the unknowable things about the universe. Or if he does know the answer, he's not telling. Maybe you have to go to J.C. State for the answer to that question.
“Love can never be considered a sin.” Pastor Costello attempts to reassure me. “Though you have to exercise good judgment regarding the right time and place. Like the Man said:
There's a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven.”
“That's from a Byrds song,” I say. “Gil has the album.”
“Yes, well, actually they borrowed their lyrics from the Book of Ecclesiastes in the Bible.”
The kitchen timer goes off, and I look for smoke to start coming out of the oven. “Time to wake up the little lambs.” Pastor Costello rises and glances out the window. “It's finally stopped raining.”
“I slept so soundly that I didn't even know it was raining.”
“Spring is just around the corner,” he says brightly.
Is it possible? I look out the window and sure enough, the isolated patches of snow have melted and water seems to trickle everywhere, searching for lower ground. The cars parked in the street are all grime gray from the combination of salt, dirt, and slush. A single squirrel darts along the power line.
Pastor Costello heads off in the direction of the kids’ rooms. On his way he says, “Sometime when we have a moment and you're feeling a bit better, I'd like to ask you about the children's prayers.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
AFTER A FULL WEEK OF CONVALESCING, I MISTAKENLY BELIEVE that I possess more energy than I actually do. Pastor Costello still gets the kids off to school, rather easily I might add, and then leaves to take care of business at the church.
After wandering through the upstairs, where everything is very much in order, even the boys’ room, I lie down on the couch. I'm too tired to be awake and too awake to sleep. The phone rings once and then stops. After a moment it starts ringing again. That's Bernard's secret signal to avoid calls from JCMD.
“Welcome back to the land of the living,” he says.
“Is that what this is supposed to be?” I reply.
“I have a surprise for you,” says Bernard. “Turn on the TV.”
“I can't watch a movie with you—we get four channels and the reception is terrible!” When I was at school Bernard and I would sometimes watch old movies together over the phone late at night.
“That's the surprise!” he says gleefully “Now you can have all Bette Davis all the time.”
I switch on the TV and can actually see the people on the screen. The reception is crystal clear on every channel, and there are at least a
hundred of them!
“Cable!” I yell out. “But, Bernard, we can't afford this.”
“Don't be silly,” he says. “It's my gift to the Palmer family. I think you'll have fewer murals in the kitchen with the Cartoon Network in the living room!”
We hang up and I watch a soap opera for the first time in my life. Today's story features gorgeous men and scheming women. One of the guys looks a lot like Craig and I decide to give him a call. He's out. Probably in a swamp somewhere. Last time we spoke he was learning to test lakes for mercury and boron. Apparently if it seeps into local drinking water, entire towns have to be evacuated.
Gwen answers her cell phone in a cavernous room where I can hear sewing machines whirring away in the background. The big fashion show is in a week and it counts as half her grade. The theme is cocktails and Gwen tells me about the red and black eveningwear she's created. Her parents are going to fly out to California just for the show.
I call Jane at Bucknell but she's rushing off to practice. She stays on the phone just long enough to tell me that her handicrafts-obsessed mother sent a horrible needlepoint pillow that says, IF YOU'RE GOING TO FIGHT, THEN USE A PILLOW. It's safely hidden in the back of her closet behind some hockey equipment.
A woman on the soap opera seems to have a split personality, or else she's a twin with an identical but diabolically evil sister. It's hard to tell. Sleep washes over me. When I wake up, Bernard is standing in the living room holding a pile of seed catalogues.
He pulls a chair up next to where my head is and announces that it's time for a new garden.
“Did Olivia finally wear you down about growing Concord grapes and fig trees?” I ask.
“Heavens, no,” says Bernard. “Mother doesn't care about grapes or figs. She only wanted them because it's what Emily Dickinson grew in her garden.”
“You wanted a white garden like Vita Sackville-West had at Sissinghurst.”
Bernard gives me a dismissive wave as if to say that was completely different. “I want a Chinese garden in order to help the girls embrace their cultural heritage.”
“You already bought willow-pattern china, hung wind chimes, put up silk paintings, organized Chinese lessons, and regularly take them to Chinatown in Cleveland.”
“Well, it's one of the oldest cultures on the planet—there's a lot to embrace,” counters Bernard.
“You put Ming vases in their rooms, bought eight different kinds of chopsticks, and cook bok choy at least once a week.”
“I thought we'd plant a Chinese tea garden,” Bernard continues undeterred.
“Can you even grow tea in Ohio?”
“It would be a tranquil place for sipping tea, reciting poetry, and doing calligraphy.”
“How stupid of me,” I say. “Blame the medicine.”
“We'd have chrysanthemums, jasmine, wintersweet, red and pink flowering oleander, and bamboo greens. We'll build a little temple with lacquered teak doors, a graceful pavilion with glazed tile roof, and use Taihu rocks to create a little waterfall. And of course we'll have ginkgo and plum trees!”
“Of course,” I say. But my real concern is why Bernard keeps saying “we.”
“And who is going to install this Chinese tea garden?”
“I'll do it,” says Bernard. “You know what they say: Trowel in hand, joy in heart.”
“Oh, really?” That will be the day Bernard cuts back on his estate sales and auctions to do yard work. He can't stand the thought of missing out on a bargain.
“The girls can help as part of their cultural immersion.”
“The girls are twenty-seven months and three and a half years old. You'd better hire a nanny.”
“I've done even better,” says Bernard in his best I've-got-a-secret tone of voice. “I now have an employee!”
“You mean an actual gardener?”
“No, silly, down at the shop. June Hennipen is going to run the store while I go to sales, take care of the girls, and post items on the Web site from home.”
“Isn't she that weird woman who runs the astrology tent for the Founder's Day picnic, with the frizzy, maroonish, not-found-in-nature-colored hair, chandelier earrings, and purple peasant skirts?”
“Okay, she does herself up in a bit of a costume, but that's just to hawk those crystal necklaces and mood rings, or whatever it is she sells. In exchange for dealing with my customers, I've given her a display window and basically free rent for her kooky little business.”
“I'm not sure it's an act,” I say. “Officer Rich told me that she briefly worked down at the town hall but kept rearranging all the desks in the building to balance them with the universe and that she's so into horoscopes she didn't show up for work on her unlucky days.”
“Plenty of accomplished architects believe in feng shui—the Eastern art of placing furniture and objects according to yin and yang,” says Bernard. “Though June does have a tendency to begin every sentence with, My therapist says … in fact, before accepting the job she had to call and consult with him.”
“Wouldn't it be easier just to plant more tomatoes?” I ask.
“As per usual, we're on exactly the same page!” He opens the catalogue and shows me a glossy picture of some incredible-looking tomatoes. “I thought we'd order the Brandywines again this year.”
“Didn't the deer eat them all last time?”
Bernard quickly flips the page. “The deer have had a tendency to treat the vegetable garden as a salad bar in the past, but I've been reading that if you surround the plants with these sharp oyster shells, they stay away.”
“It's worth a try,” I say. “Playing the radio didn't scare them off the way the guy at the garden center promised it would. In fact, I think they liked the music. Only, where are you going to put all this stuff?” The backyard is already chock-full with three regular gardens, an herb garden, a gazebo, and the new pond. Then there's the summerhouse and the shed.
“You didn't hear?” asks Bernard, eyes wide.
Apparently it's slipped his mind that I've been just a little busy lately, not to mention unconscious a good part of the past week.
“I'm going to buy the lot behind the house!” crows Bernard.
“That's great,” I say. There's a lovely wooded acre or so at the end of the property, and it'd be nice to prevent something awful from being built there.
“I'll make us some cherry grain balsam pear tea from the Yangtze River basin to celebrate.” Bernard produces tea bags from his breast pocket as if pulling out a fresh hanky. “And then we'll write up the order.”
Through the kitchen door Bernard continues talking and explains how he's been made interim leader of the Girl Scout troop.
“You're kidding me, right?”
“No. Melinda—she prefers Mel—broke her ankle when they went hiking along some old canal last weekend.”
“How can a guy head a Girl Scout troop?”
“It's just temporary,” says Bernard. “I'm working in a volunteer capacity that's officially called a Do-Dad.”
“Does this mean you have to go camping and hiking and stuff like that?”
“I always had my doubts about that outdoor business,” continues Bernard. “Just a lot of sprained elbows and ruined skin, if you ask me.”
I look down at my own dishpan hands.
Bernard returns with two cups of tea that are clear in color but pleasant-tasting. “The kitchen is spotless!”
“Pastor Costello,” I say.
“That man knows how to clean,” says Bernard.
“Pastor Costello says that if Jesus was able to clean up after himself, then the rest of us are equally gifted. And all that's necessary for those hard-to-reach places is a positive attitude. He even cleans the church himself.”
“Maybe he'd like to tackle my garage,” says Bernard.
“I'm afraid you've made a pact with the devil on that one.” The garage contains everything that Bernard ends up with when he has to buy an entire lot just to get the one or two items
he really wants.
Bernard takes up his catalogues, this time with pen in hand. “It would be nice to have a spring garden this year—impatiens, petunias, and how about some white rhododendron? Wouldn't they look nice around the pool?”
“The pool! Let me get this straight. I don't have the energy to wash my hair and you're planning a spring garden, Chinese tea garden, vegetable garden, and a swimming pool?”
Bernard raises his teacup high, tilts backs his head as if gazing off at some imaginary mountaintop, and proclaims, “A garden is like a lovely memory—it should grow more glorious over time.”
THIRTY-NINE
THE HOURS MELT INTO DAYS AND THE DAYS DRIFT INTO ANOTHER week. The chicken pox flies the Palmer coop, the kids are back in their regular beds, and Pastor Costello now sleeps on the couch in the living room. He sends the multitude off to school in the morning and then serves them dinner and puts them to bed at night. A duty roster now hangs on the fridge, and all the kids check off their chores every morning and every night. It's safe to say there are no more unmade beds around this house.
Mrs. Muldoon has offered to keep the twins until I'm well. She's taking some medicine for her arthritis that seems to have given her a new lease on life and insists that caring for the boys keeps her young.
Since hiring June Hennipen to mind the store, Bernard is free to work from home during the day, and so he picks up Lillian every morning and brings her to play with the girls. She's even learning a little Chinese by sitting in with Rose and Gigi's language tutor.
The doctor wasn't kidding when he said the recovery process would be three steps forward and two back. After the kids leave for school on Thursday morning I head back to bed.
There's no TV in Mom and Dad's room, I'm too tired to read, and so I drift in and out while the bedside clock radio plays a crackly R&B station.
Maybe I should become a blues singer. That way I could make money at night while the kids are asleep and then arrive home just in time to put them on the bus in the morning. I imagine myself wearing a black sequined gown in a smoky night club operating out of a shack by the river. A blind man in coveralls sits on a stool playing his guitar while I sing along:
The Big Shuffle Page 14
