I wake up in the morning
Get those children dressed and fed
Cause Daddy's gone to heaven
And poor Momma's lost her head.
The blind man takes a solo and everyone in the audience nods their head as if their troubles are bad, too. Then it's back to me.
The preacher come to help me
We prayed to cure my ills
But instead of being answered
All I got was bills.
I imagine the chef announces that the catfish is ready and so my set is over, whereupon I promptly fall back to sleep.
Olivia arrives in the afternoon and does some laundry. She says the basement reminds her of Dante's Inferno, only in this case the ninth circle of hell is reserved for color fast sheets.
Then Olivia and Pastor Costello feed the kids their dinner. Every once in a while I can hear Pastor Costello shout “Oh phooey” when he drops or spills something.
While Pastor Costello finishes washing the dishes, Olivia sits with me and reads out loud. The play is called Diana of Dobsons and was written by a woman named Cicely Hamilton. It's mostly about the lack of opportunities for women in the early 1900s, particularly if they didn't marry right away. Despite winning awards and garnering acclaim, the play hasn't been performed much since it first came out. Part of Olivia's current crusade is to revive female dramatists from the early twentieth century.
At the end of Act Two Olivia and I decide that we've had enough of poor but plucky Diana for one night. Putting the book down on the bedside table, Olivia asks, “So, Hallie, who is your favorite fictional character in all of literature?”
“I guess Tom Sawyer or Huck Finn,” I say. “What about you?”
“The Brontë sisters created some wonderful characters. And so did Charles Dickens, of course. But there are so many. I suppose if I had to choose just one, it would be God.”
“So I guess this means you definitely don't believe in God,” I say.
“I don't think it matters whether or not you believe so much as that you care.”
“Care about what?” I ask.
“Whatever your heart can undertake.”
Davy bursts into the room with Darlene in hot pursuit. The kitten is asleep on my bed, and so they can't be trying to kill each other over that.
Darlene shouts at me to tell Davy to give him back a piece from a game they're playing. Davy runs around to the other side of the bed so she can't catch him. Darlene dives across the bed and her left foot jabs my kidney.
Olivia, having raised an only child, doesn't possess the skill set for conflict resolution among rambunctious siblings, aside from to suggest that they “use words and not hands.”
Their screams reverberate throughout the house. Pastor Costello enters the room while wiping his hands on a dish towel. “As the Irish like to say—is this a private fight or can anyone get in it?” Clapping his hands, he announces, “Okay, one cookie apiece and off to bed. Truce is better than friction.” Pastor Costello has a quiet authority and an arsenal of aphorisms that make children instinctively stop hitting each other and want to start hitting him.
“Will you tell us a story?” asks Darlene.
“Yeah, one with a snake in it!” says Davy.
“Why certainly, I know just the one,” says Pastor Costello. “In fact, this story has a talking snake.”
The kids race out of the room, their faces glowing with anticipation. Only I'm afraid they might be disappointed when they hear about the snake in the Garden of Eden instead of Uncle Lenny's Burmese python that had to be cut in half with a machete.
After Darlene and Davy scamper off, Olivia straightens out the blankets and says, “Look at the bright side: Rome was founded on the basis of sibling rivalry between twins.”
“So in the end they got along famously and actually accomplished something?” I ask.
“Oh no!” says Olivia. “They continued fighting until Romulus killed Remus and then named the city after himself.”
Eventually the house settles down and it's quiet enough to hear the heat struggling to come up through the vents in the floor. The moon lights the backyard with a blue splendor, and the night sky is pinpricked by thousands of stars.
Olivia's gaze drifts to the window. “There certainly are a lot of stars out tonight. When Bernard was young and he couldn't sleep, we'd play a game called Unitarian constellations. Oh, how he used to make me laugh!”
I'm aware that Olivia attends the Unitarian church, where they don't seem to worry about religion nearly as much as writing their congressmen, but this is the first I've heard about any deities. “What's a Unitarian constellation?”
“Let me try and remember some of them,” says Olivia as she studies the patch of universe visible through the bedroom window. “See those four stars that form a square—that's an aluminum can belonging to Sunbeam, the Great Recycler.” She points to the left side of the window. “And those six bright dots over there make up the edge of Moonbeam's skirt. She believed world peace could be achieved through interpretive dance.”
“What about that shape to the right of the moon?” I ask.
“That must be the scissors used by Thomas Jefferson to remove references to God and miracles from the Bible.”
“Wrong, wrong, wrong!” Bernard is standing in the doorway. “That's the comfortable shoe of Susan B. Anthony. And above it is the long, long belt that went around the enormous waist of Unitarian President William Howard Taft.”
Olivia claps her hands with delight. “I've always felt that Bernard missed his calling as an astronomer.”
“I brought over a big dish of chicken à la king left over from Girl Scouts,” says Bernard. “You should have seen the horrific concoctions they were eating—why, the Red Cross wouldn't serve such fare to disaster victims.”
“When Bernard was a boy, he was so talented and had such a plethora of interests that I often wondered what he'd do as an adult,” says Olivia. “However, Girl Scout troop leader is possibly the one vocation that eluded me.”
“It's only temporary—until Mel's ankle is better,” says Bernard. “Oh, Mother, I almost forgot—a man named Darius came by the house looking for you.”
For a moment Olivia looks completely stunned, but she quickly regains her composure. “Oh, what a surprise!”
The ever-inquisitive Bernard senses a story. “And exactly who is Darius?”
“Just a nice young man I met in Greece. He's planning to open a restaurant in the States, and so I gave him our number,” she says offhandedly
“Oh.” Bernard brightens. “He's a chef then?”
“Darius is an excellent cook. His family owns a café overlooking the sea on the Greek island of Folegandros. Why don't you go on ahead and I'll be along in a few minutes.” Olivia looks downcast, her natural gaiety having fled.
Once Bernard is out of earshot, I ask, “Is something wrong?”
“I came home early because Ottavio and I had a fight,” says Olivia. “It was silly, really. We went to the café every morning. They had the best coffee and raki—the Greek equivalent of a hot toddy. Anyway, one day Darius invited us for a sunrise sail on this lovely old wooden boat he owns with his brother. The island of Folegandros is famous for its sunrises the way Santorini is known for its sunsets.”
Olivia pauses and looks dreamy, as if she's momentarily transported back to the breathtaking beauty of it all. Then she apparently recalls that paradise didn't last. “Ottavio tends to feel seasick on small boats, and so he didn't want to come along. When I agreed to go alone, Ottavio became angry.”
Olivia sighs, glances down at her now bare hands, and unconsciously rubs the place her sapphire and diamond ring used to be. I can still see the faint outline of where the skin wasn't exposed to the sun.
“I thought he was being unreasonable,” she continues. “Others were invited. And besides, it was clear to everyone that I was there with Ottavio. Just because we weren't married doesn't mean that I would ever betray him. Anywa
y, I went by myself. When I arrived back Ottavio wouldn't speak to me and so after two days I left.”
“Did this Darius guy have a crush on you?” I ask.
“I highly doubt that,” says Olivia. “He flirted with all the female customers. Darius is extraordinarily handsome—the tourists called him Adonis. In fact, Ottavio and I used to joke about it, at least before we argued. If Darius was busy talking to a pretty woman, it could take half an hour to get the bill.”
“And you haven't heard from Ottavio since then?” I ask.
Nodding her head to indicate that she hasn't, Olivia rises from her chair by the side of the bed. “I'd better go.” She leans over and kisses my forehead. “Do you want me to close the shade?”
“No thanks,” I say.
Olivia departs and I stare out the window at the bright panoply of stars that make up heaven's floor. The big dipper looks like a kite at the end of its string. But all I can think of is how the brightest star in the Palmer constellation has gone out.
FORTY
ONCE THE KIDS ARE OFF TO SCHOOL, PASTOR COSTELLO GENERALLY heads over to his office. Fund-raising has fallen off since his trip to Cambodia, and the church roof is leaking in more places than usual. This morning he looks particularly hurried and preoccupied, as if he has more important things to do than scrub the oatmeal off the kitchen table.
I sit on the living room floor and try to attach Lillian's sneakers to her body so that Bernard can pick her up to play with Rose and Gigi, whom he happily refers to as his “lunachicks.” Only she's more interested in luring the kitten out of its hiding place underneath the couch than being bogged down with footwear.
“Lillian! Will you please hold still so I can put your shoes on?”
“I don't like those shoes, Mommy,” she retorts. Oh God! I cover my face with my hands. It's like a bad episode of Little House on the Prairie.
Pastor Costello comes through the room searching for his spectacles.
“I feel bad that you've wasted so much time over here,” I say to him. “I'm fine now and can handle things on my own.” Hell, the kids are even calling me Mommy, I almost add, but don't.
Pastor Costello stops directly in front of me, and his mournful countenance instantly changes to alarm. “Whatever would make you say that? I'm enjoying this challenge and feel very blessed to have the opportunity to be of service.”
“Oh, well, it's just that you look sort of anxious. Obviously we're keeping you from a lot of stuff—your life, for instance. I appreciate all your help, but there's really no reason to spend the night anymore.”
“Now I remember why you're such a good poker player—you read the people instead of the cards.” Pastor Costello sighs and sits down on the couch. “My mother died a year ago today. She was quite ill and suffering, and so I can't say I wish she'd carried on in that condition. But I'm still not used to an empty house.”
The back door opens and Lillian shouts with glee as she runs through the kitchen to meet Bernard and the girls.
“You came home to an empty house and I've arrived home to a full one.” I nod my head in the direction of the noise.
“Yes, I suppose so,” says Pastor Costello. “What we can't cure we must endure. I'll light a candle and say a prayer for her when I get to the church.”
“Do you really believe that prayers help?” I ask. “Olivia says that people change things, not prayer.”
“But prayer changes people.” Pastor Costello rises to leave. “I'll see you this afternoon.”
It's easy to pray for my mom, because I just pray that she'll get better. When it comes to Dad it's not nearly as straightforward. Do I pray that he's happy wherever he is, that his soul is at peace? Although I know what he always used to pray for at the beginning of April—a big tax refund. In fact, that's a good idea. I'll pray for the things I'm certain would have made Dad happy—good health, especially for Eric, since if he gets injured we're all in trouble, good grades, and a good refund.
FORTY-ONE
AFTER TWO MORE WEEKS OF DIVIDING MY TIME BETWEEN THE bed and the couch, I'm finally ready to tackle a full day. The first thing on my list is to recover the twins from Mrs. Muldoon. Only when I go next door to fetch them, she actually appears heartbroken. It doesn't take much for her to convince me to let her watch them every afternoon. That way she can do her cleaning, shopping, and errands in the morning and I'll do mine later in the day. It's easy to see why in ancient times village women gathered at a central location with all their tools and kids in order to get anything accomplished.
“I'm sorry that I can't pay you for all of this baby-sitting,” I say. And I mean it, because Mrs. Muldoon should probably be receiving a hundred dollars a day for taking care of not one, but two, babies.
Mrs. Muldoon looks horrified. “Don't be ridiculous, Hallie. I should be paying you. My daughter Barbara wants me to move out to Scottsdale and live with her. She made a ton of money with those computer things. I tell her, ‘Barbara, I may not be as good in the kitchen as I once was, but I can still manage.’ You should have heard Barbara when I told her about taking care of twins! I finally said, ‘Barbara, they're just babies, like you were once, and I'm not dead yet!’ ”
“Arizona is supposed to be nice,” I say. Honestly, it wouldn't take much to interest me in a trip to someplace warm and sunny right about now.
“It's not for me,” scoffs Mrs. Muldoon. “This is my home, right here.” She points to the living room with the plastic covers over the couches (probably a good thing with the twins around). “And now I have the perfect excuse for not going without hurting her feelings. Barbara knows how I just adore children.”
“Where's George these days?” Mrs. Muldoon's younger brother had lived with her most of the time I was growing up.
“Somewhere in New Hampshire,” says Mrs. Muldoon. “George is still finding himself.”
I'm tempted to say that if a guy in his late seventies has not yet found himself, then he may not be looking in the right places.
Taking a twin under each arm I walk back across the lawn, through the garage door, and into the kitchen.
“Surprise!” None other than Craig is sitting at the kitchen table.
I'm so surprised that I almost drop both the boys onto the linoleum floor.
“I thought you weren't coming until next week! I'm a wreck!” I hold one of the boys up to cover my face and attempt to smooth my wild hair. “You can't see me like this!”
“I finished early.” Craig rises and kisses me on the forehead, right between the two boys. Taking one of them into his arms, he says, “You look terrific. I expected to find you in bed.”
Craig's yellow hair is wavy now that he's let it grow out of the crew cut he had while playing football in high school. And he's not as built up as when he went to the weight room several times a week. But his restless green eyes are the same, and you could probably cut glass on those cheekbones.
He helps me settle the boys into their portable car seats on the kitchen table. “It's just so great to finally see you!”
We both feel how much has happened since we were together over the holidays. It was only three months ago but seems more like several years.
“How come I didn't see your car pull up?”
“I parked down the street in order to surprise you. I haven't even been home yet. Why don't I go unpack and then pick you up later this evening?”
“Pick me up?” I want to laugh, but it's so not funny that I can't.
“Uh, Craig, my brothers and sisters will be arriving home from school starting at three, and they have to do homework, eat dinner, get ready for bed, you know … I mean, Pastor Costello comes by every day to help, but I can't just leave him here to do everything. He's already been incredibly generous with his time while I was sick.”
“Of course,” Craig enthuses, and his eyes give out a lively light. “I'll come over and help.”
“Okay, that would be great.”
Suddenly things are looking up. And the
prospect of doing six loads of laundry doesn't seem nearly so bad.
FORTY-TWO
WHEN CRAIG RETURNS AT FIVE O'CLOCK, I DON'T HEAR HIM come through the front door because of all the noise. Darlene, Davy, and Francie are playing some game that involves screaming as loud as they can. In fact, that's all it seems to involve. Lillian has found a kazoo, and the twins have turned into sheep, going “Bah!” every few seconds. Meantime Teddy is accusing Francie and Darlene of leaving the caps off of his Magic Markers again. The twins are loudly proclaiming their innocence as Teddy threatens to wallop them. One might well ask, “Where are the parents?”
Pastor Costello removes the chipped-beef casserole from the oven while I set the table. When I poke my head into the living room to tell Lillian to quit it with the kazoo, Craig is standing in the front hall like a deer caught in headlights, unable to take a step without landing on top of toy soldiers set up for battle, scattered checkers, various pieces of Mr. Potato Head, and an abandoned game of Candyland. Francie's favorite Raffi CD is blasting from a boom box, and the kitten is happily tearing apart a mitten under the coffee table. Craig has never spent any time at the Palmer household, aside from the day we stopped by before the prom, and apparently wasn't expecting this level of critical mass.
“Come on in,” I shout over Raffi singing “Willoughby Wallaby Woo” accompanied by Lillian's kazoo. “We're in the kitchen.” To the kids, I say, “Clean up this stuff, wash your hands for dinner, and turn that CD off or Willoughby Wallaby Woo the elephant is going to sit on you, too!” A county fair couldn't make more commotion.
Craig makes his way through the mess. “Wow. These are all your brothers and sisters?”
“No, I've taken hostages.” Granted, when they're gathered in one room and not spread out in the backyard it does look like a much larger group.
At dinner Pastor Costello leads the prayer. In the past few weeks he's Jesused us all up with a full-length grace at each meal, complete with special intentions from everyone. Then during dinner each child must tell one good thing and one bad thing about his or her day. Francie goes last because she harbors grudges against almost every boy in her class and it takes at least ten minutes to work through them all. Pastor Costello feels the need to invest a substantial amount of time deconstructing her anger, with a focus on forgiveness. Meantime, I, the less charitable among us, think we should pursue a different line of inquiry: What is Francie doing to make these boys so angry in the first place?
The Big Shuffle Page 15
