The Big Shuffle

by Laura Pedersen

  After dinner Craig and I clear the table and start in on the stacks of dishes.

  “Wow, it's sort of like working in a restaurant, isn't it?” Craig asks good-naturedly.

  “Welcome to my world,” I say. “The best part is that you don't have to worry about quality since everyone is a repeat customer. The bad news is that the tips are lousy and the floor needs mopping after each meal.”

  Pastor Costello comes over to the sink with his trademark white dish towel slung over his shoulder and says, “Why don't you kids go and get some fresh air while I keep watch over the flock? According to St. Thérèse of Lisieux, God is in the pots and pans.”

  Despite the fact that I feel like anything but a kid these days, I'm thrilled to have the chance to escape. Pastor Costello is the one who should be sainted.

  Craig and I attempt to look guilty as we quickly relinquish our places in front of the sink. We head toward the door, eager to spend time alone together.

  “Be careful,” he says.

  I take this to mean that we're supposed to remember that sex is for procreation and not recreation. However, no actual abstinence pledges are called for, and so we mumble “Okay.”

  FORTY-THREE

  THE EVENING SKY IS WATERCOLOR GRAY AND THE CLOUDS ARE full of rain. As the gravel crushes softly under our tires in the old familiar driveway, I realize that several months have passed since I've been at the Stocktons’. The white Victorian house with its black shutters and gingerbread trim appears welcoming. And the row of silver poplar trees practically glows in the cool stillness of the shadows.

  The prospect of being alone with Craig is thrilling. Just the sight of him sitting next to me in the car causes a rush of delight throughout my entire body. Our plan is to sneak into the sum-merhouse. In a small town, trying to have sex with someone you're not married to is a lot like trying to sneak hot-fudge sundaes into diet camp.

  “It's only a quarter past seven,” says Craig. “They're probably finishing dinner.”

  “I guess we'd better go in and say hello first.”

  I knock on the heavy front door before opening it and call out, “Hello there, it's Hallie.”

  Gil comes around the corner carrying a storybook and is the first to greet us. “Welcome to bedtime! I'm offering a bounty of a hundred dollars for every child captured.” Gil stretches his hand out toward Craig. “Hey, big guy! It's great to see you.”

  Craig is only an inch or two taller than Gil, but he's much broader, especially since playing football in high school and lacrosse in college. Gil has more of a baseball player's lanky grace and the sinuous build of a long-distance runner.

  “I've got one!” Bernard announces as he enters the front hall swinging Rose in his arms. “Welcome home, Craig. How's school going?”

  Craig appears caught off guard by the question. “Oh … you know, school. Same as ever, I guess.”

  “Where's your little sister?” Gil waves a finger at the giggling and writhing pajama-clad Rose.

  Rose wriggles free and manages to make her escape. She's growing up tall and athletic—any developmental issues she had when she first arrived nine months ago have entirely disappeared.

  “That's what happens when you capture one in a half stock-ton instead of a full stockton,” says Gil.

  “She's adorable,” says Craig, and smiles.

  “And fast,” Gil adds as Rose practically flies up the stairs.

  “Those pajamas are gorgeous,” I say of the pink silk brocaded with ivory flowers.

  “They're imported from China,” says Bernard. “It's part of their cultural heritage.”

  Gil rolls his eyes.

  Only Bernard catches him. “If you would stop showing them music videos, they might actually absorb some of it rather than dancing around like David Byrne!”

  “Stop Making Sense is not a music video but a landmark film made by a world-class director. And an important part of American culture. If I leave everything to you, the girls will be laughed out of school for having lunch boxes stuffed with chopsticks, General Tso's chicken, and green tea.”

  “Is Olivia around?” asks Craig. “I was hoping to ask her something.”

  He was? This is news to me. Then suddenly I understand— Craig is providing an excuse for our coming over. This way it won't look as if our only intention was to shack up in the sum-merhouse.

  “She went out,” says Gil.

  “Church?” I ask.

  “Don't get me started!” says Bernard.

  “Darius,” says Gil.

  “Who's Darius?” asks Craig.

  “Some con-artist gigolo she met in the Greek Islands who is using Mother to get citizenship and then start a business with her money.”

  Gil lets out a sigh to indicate this may not exactly be the story, as Bernard is prone not only to dramatization, but also exaggeration.

  “He hasn't asked Livvy for anything,” says Gil.

  “That we know of,” Bernard shoots back.

  Rose comes zooming by and Gil makes an unsuccessful grab for her. “And stop straight-bashing in front of the children.”

  “Gay or straight, he's an opportunist,” says Bernard.

  “May I remind you that she's the one who convinced him to stay here? Darius had already checked into a motel. You just don't like him because he's handsome and looks young for his age,” says Gil. “Which is not much more than your age.”

  Bernard responds with a look that indicates Gil has no idea what he's talking about and will probably be committed by morning.

  Rose comes around again and this time Gil manages to catch her. “Let's find your sister so we can read a story.”

  “I've looked everywhere,” says Bernard. “Rocky must have taken her to the summerhouse.” Bernard removes a coat from the front hall closet while explaining, “With the space heater it's more or less become a playroom, especially since you know who has been staying rent-free in the den.”

  Craig and I follow Bernard out to the summerhouse. Dark clouds scuttle toward us, sheeting the sky with an eerie greenish-gray I can't help but notice that the gardens are ready to be turned, and how little green buds dot the branches of the rosebushes that haven't been pruned.

  “The swimming pool will go back there.” Bernard points to an area near the front of the woods marked off by wooden stakes with red flags on top. “A Neptune pool like William Randolph Hearst had at San Simeon, complete with colonnades, statues of nymphs, and of course a slide for the children.”

  “Better go easy on the nymphs if you want my brothers and sisters to be allowed to swim in it.”

  “The Chinese tea garden will go over there.” He indicates a spot to the right of the summerhouse where it used to be just grass, but now there are several mounds of dirt and a large wooden platform.

  We stop to check on the pond that Craig built last summer, which seems to have survived the harsh winter in good shape, complete with the majority of fish alive and swimming. As Bernard opens the door to the summerhouse the wind picks up and rustles the branches above. I shiver not with cold so much as enthusiasm.

  “Rocky and Gigi are inseparable,” explains Bernard. “I don't know what he's going to do when she eventually starts preschool.”

  The summerhouse is the same as I left it, except for some toys scattered about. And sure enough, Rocky and Gigi are snuggled up together asleep on one of the couches. It's probably a good thing the adoption agency doesn't know that the girls’ nanny is a recovering alcoholic chimpanzee, even if he was trained to assist paraplegics.

  The two look awfully cute lying there together. Gigi has a thick, full head of hair now, rather than the short punk-rock do she sported when the girls first arrived.

  “I'd hire a sitter, but Rocky is amazing with the children,” says Bernard. “And you don't have to worry about coming home to him on the phone with his girlfriend.”

  “How is his girlfriend, by the way?” I refer to Lulu the Great Dane, who lives next door.

  “Did
n't I tell you?” asks Bernard. “She had puppies on New Year's Day. Sometimes we get all the kids together for a play date.”

  “Is Rocky still desperately in love with her?” asks Craig.

  “I believe they're just good friends nowadays,” says Bernard. “As in most relationships, things change after the children arrive.”

  “Having recently found myself in the family way, I can certainly see how that's possible,” I reply.

  After glancing back toward the sleeping child, Bernard whispers, “Gigi can already say the alphabet. I'm quite certain that she's a genius.”

  Craig and I both nod vigorously, as if this is undoubtedly the case. Taking another look around, it appears that all the children's toys are indeed educational ones. Not exactly like our basement playroom, the place where homemade sock puppets go to die.

  Bernard wakes Rocky by tapping him on the shoulder.

  Rocky is excited to see Craig and me, and after placing big smacking kisses on both of our cheeks, he gently lifts Gigi without waking her and heads out the door with the sleeping child in his furry arms.

  Once they've exited Bernard says, “It's no use trying to take her away from Rocky. He gets angry and she starts screaming. I had to bring him with me to the pediatrician one day. That made for an interesting waiting room experience.”

  “I'll bet,” says Craig.

  “Why don't I ask Gil to read the girls a story while I fix us some hot chocolate?” suggests Bernard. “I have a wonderful new creation called orange zest hot cocoa—it sounds terrible but tastes magnifique! Especially with a pinch of cinnamon and fresh whipped cream.”

  Looking down at my feet, I mutter, “Craig just arrived back and I was wondering if maybe the two of us could just sit and talk out here for a while.”

  Bernard gives an expressive, “Oh,” to indicate that he gets it. “Yes, yes, of course. Why don't the two of you catch up on all the local gossip. I have a lot of work to do on my new weekly antiques newsletter—Decorators Without Borders.”

  Once Bernard is gone, Craig and I stand awkwardly in front of each other.

  I finally say, “Remember when you came over before leaving for school and—”

  “And we kissed on the couch and then made love on the bed,” Craig finishes the sentence for me.

  “I never could have made it through these past two months without you,” I tell him. And it's the truth.

  “Sure you could have,” says Craig. “You're strong.”

  “No matter how bad things got I always knew that at the end of the day I could call and you'd be there for me.”

  Craig kisses me. His lips are smooth and cool, and I feel that old tingle all through my body. I kiss him back hard. We shed our clothes and climb under the covers. He rubs my back with those big strong hands and it feels so good. I close my eyes and release a deep breath.

  “Hallie, wake up!”

  “Huh?” I have no idea where I am.

  “It's almost eleven o'clock!”

  “Oh my gosh, I crashed. I'm so sorry.”

  Craig laughs. “Me too. We slept for two and a half hours! I guess I was tired from all that driving.”

  We crawl out from under the covers and quickly dress. “I meant to ask, why did you drive home rather than fly?”

  “I had a lot of stuff to bring back.”

  Craig drops me in front of the house, promising to come by tomorrow so that while the kids are at school we can finally get a chance to be together—just the two of us.

  Pastor Costello is lying on the couch reading and doesn't hear me come in. When he looks up and sees me, he quickly shoves his book behind the couch pillow as if it's pornography.

  “Sorry I'm so late.” I pretend not to notice that he deep-sixed the book.

  Only it was so obvious that he removes the book and shows it to me. “Mystery novel,” Pastor Costello explains sheepishly. “Guilty pleasure.”

  I laugh. “What's there to be guilty about? It's not as if the church has banned reading novels.”

  “I know. It's just that … well, I feel as if people expect me to be perusing the Bible or something more high-minded.” He nods toward the cover where a bloody knife rests atop a hand mirror and next to a heart-shaped bottle of spilled perfume.

  “Your secret is safe with me,” I say.

  “Amen to that.” Pastor Costello rises from the couch in the way that middle-aged people do, slowly and checking to make sure everything still works before applying too much pressure. “How was your date?”

  “Great,” I say. I'm tempted to add that the best way to achieve abstinence is not with a pledge, but through extensive child care.

  “The Larkins are a nice family—longtime members of the Methodist church, though Craig's father was raised Lutheran.”

  “I wasn't aware that you preachers kept score.”

  “In a town this size you eventually get to know just about everyone. Besides, most of these trains are heading for the same station. We're on slightly different tracks is all.”

  As Pastor Costello gets his things together, he says, “It's nice to see you with a little color back in your cheeks.”

  Yeah, nothing like a good nap with your boyfriend, I think.

  “I thought I'd go home tonight, now that you're better,” says Pastor Costello.

  I assume it will be a nice change for him to wake up in his own bed, except something in his tone makes me say, “Either way is fine.”

  “I'll be back in time to make breakfast. And the lunches are in the fridge,” he says. “Call if you need anything. We're open twenty-four hours a day, just like heaven.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  SOMETIMES THE RAIN IS SO LOUD DURING THE NIGHT THAT IT wakes me up with a start. Water gushes from the gutters and cascades off the roof onto the driveway and back porch. At one point I find little Lillian trembling at the edge of my bed and open the covers so she can crawl in beside me.

  When I look out the window in the morning, the downpour has let up and steel-gray clouds scud across the sky heading toward Cleveland. What I don't see are any big yellow buses. By sixty-thirty A.M. the high school is normally picking up the early birds who practice for swim team, work out in the gym, or volunteer for safety patrol. Also missing are cars. I soon realize there's a good reason for this: There don't appear to be roads anymore.

  Water swirls in the street while the lawns are a marsh with only the tops of bushes poking up like scrubby little islands. Big green garbage cans and plastic planters bob along the surface, accompanied by plastic toys.

  There's no point in waking the kids for school. I check the basement for water and discover some trickles here and there, but nothing major yet. When we used to complain about needing a bigger house, Dad always said that we were lucky to be in this one because it's built on high ground compared to the rest of the neighborhood.

  Swinging open the front door I'm hit with a powerful but unusual smell—a combination of raw sewage and spring. The air is about twenty degrees warmer than it was yesterday. At the end of the street I hear a buzzing sound, as if a large mosquito is approaching. Zipping around the corner in an inflatable boat comes Officer Rich and Al, both wearing blue caps with gold badges on the front. Al must have been deputized for the emergency. A rowboat emerges from between the two houses across the street. And at the other end of the block a kayak glides into view.

  I step out onto the front porch and Officer Rich pulls his boat alongside as if the stoop is a dock.

  “Ship to shore,” Al calls out to me as he grabs the iron railing.

  “Guess you don't need your snowplow today,” I say.

  “We reached the high-water mark about two hours ago,” explains Officer Rich. “It's starting to go down.”

  “But there's no school, right?” I ask.

  “Roger that,” says Officer Rich. “Spring break is starting a day early. But don't let the kids out to mess around in the water. It's not all that clean.”

  “And don't let them touch
any wires in the basement,” says Al. “Call me if it doesn't drain by tomorrow and I'll bring the electric pump over.”

  “So far it's mostly dry,” I report.

  Al looks up and down the street to survey our chances of being flooded. “You're lucky, because on the other side of Main Street water is sloshing around in people's living rooms.”

  Mr. Cavanaugh waves as he floats by in an old beat-up tin horse trough. Then he returns to scanning the surface of the water while holding a crab net over his shoulder.

  From behind my house seventy-year-old Mr. Blakely from the hardware store comes bobbing along in a washtub, using a broom to propel himself through the brackish water. His eyes are also fixed on the swirling surface.

  “What's everyone doing out here so early?” I ask. “It's not even seven o'clock.”

  Officer Rich smiles. “Cappy's father had a secret stash that the flood brought up.”

  I don't know if it's the early hour or the mist, but I don't get it.

  “You know that Cappy's father was a legendary bootlegger, right?” asks Al.

  I nod my head. I'd heard stories, but never really asked him about them. Being that we live so close to one of the Great Lakes and Canada had looser regulations during prohibition, there'd certainly been a lot of action around here in the 1920s and ’30s.

  Officer Rich holds up a brown bottle with no label while Al continues, “Things got pretty hot near the end, and he was constantly changing hiding places right up until the minute he was shot.”

  Shot? I definitely didn't know about that.